Rubble Rubble

Dear intranet community,

I am once again in Tennessee, visiting my beloved and her monstrous dog. Old Shit-Storm has learned the pleasures of The Way of the Tooth, and now exercises his fighting skills on every hand, ankle, thigh, butt, and love-handle (not a sexual euphamism) that he can get his small, razor-like fangs on. There is hope, however, in that the father of Destructicon - let's just call him Destructicus Prime - advised that we kick the shit out of the dog whenever he doesn't "akrite". We have employed firm, but fair, whaps to the snout when the beastie snaps/tears at us and it has seemed to mellow the devildog considerably. Good news for us. Bad news for The Wild.

Speaking of teaching... I realized recently how tasktastic my fall schedule is going to be. It may jeopardize my ability to audition for my school's production of Rocky Horror. Why would you want to be in that sissy show, Markre (you may ask)? Um. I uh... Wool... Wrong number! Wrong number!

Been thinking about the future a bit. Destructicon was like "what happens when you complete the Second City Training Program?" And I'm like, "buh... Um. I uh... Felt.... Prank caller! Prank caller!" Because, dear readre, as you may understand: training does not equal employment. Even if I did squeeze through the wringer of an advanced improv training center's program, that does not mean that my dream of being a big, fat & juicy improv comedian would be attained. Maybe I've been naiive to not conclude this earlier, but I suppose that "Dreams" are founded on naiive desires, not sound logic. What happens Next? Is the format to our lives. I need an input (back me up here Burpees).



M. Arkre