Phoney Calls

Okay, let's just get one thing straight before we launch into this: it was Clark that pooped in Michael's coffee, not me. And it was not real poop. It was a 'cat poop' cookie. Y'know, one of those delicious no-bake cookies that look like a cat turd. Don't believe me? Here you go, have a recipe: Cat Poop Cookies

Now, before this turns into a cookery show, let's get the show on the road.

I got a call on the Unbelievaphone the other day...

"Hello, Unbelievables! You tip us off, our hats we will doff!"

"Jeff, will you please stop doing those stupid ad-rhyme-greeting things?"

"Oh, hi Michael. What up, dawg, fo rizzle ma nizzle?"

"And quit with the ghetto speak. That is also not very cool. What I wanted to talk about was Clark and his stupid training calls. To speak in the lingua franca of your birth country, they are getting right on my wick."

"Yes, me too, matey. And top marks for getting the phrase right."

"So what do we do about it? He called me earlier, pretending to be you and claiming that you pooped in my coffee, and urging ME to go poop in your tea."

"Well, that is ridiculous. I don't even drink tea. I'm a coffee guy, like you. Maybe we should call him up on that carphone he's so ruddy proud of."

"Now, that's an idea..."

So, a little bit later...

"RINGGG!!!"

"Heyy, Clark here, comin' at ya live from Da Unbelievajalopy!"

"(sigh) not you as well... Clark, we need you back here at the base pronto! Code red, repeat, code red!"

"I'm on the case! Returning to base asap!" (Sound of car tires squealing)

Boy, did we laugh. See, we knew what was waiting for Clark when he got back.

Payback.

One ringy-dingy

Sometimes I conduct telephone training, just to keep the guys on their toes. Being able to think fast and deal with threats, be they merely a nuisance or something more sinister, is a valuable skill in our line of work.

*RING RING*
"Hello, this is Michael."
"Hello. Is this Michael?"
"(Sigh) That's what I just--yes, this is Michael."
"Michael, do you like coffee?"
"Yes, I like coffee. Who is this?"
"This is the guy who pooped in your coffee!"
"All right, who the hell is this?!? Clark? Is this you? It better not be you."
"No, this isn't me. I mean, this isn't Clark."
"Well then who is it?!?"
"Uhhh... my name is Jeff."
"Jeff, huh?"
"Yes. Me name Jeff. Me Engrish. Me from Gleat Blitain. You no can tell?"
"Well, the highly offensive stereotype accent you're attempting sounds more Asian than British..."
"Ha ha! Me tlicky!"
"(Sigh again) Listen, whoever you aren't, I'm kind of busy..."
"You know good way to get back at me, me being Jeff? You should poop in my tea! Mine, being Jeff's!"
"Great. Brilliant idea. I'll get right on that."
"You will? Oh, me will be soooo angry!"
"Right. (hangs up)"

Then I got a call ...

Memorial Morn

 

I sat there in the restaurant in the very early morning hour of this Memorial Day looking at my recently freshened cup of coffee.

I reached for a couple creams, opened them and poured them into the cup. Then, in went a packet of sugar. I drew the cup closer to me, picked up my spoon and stirred everything together. Extracting the spoon and putting it on the table, I stared into my coffee, watching a tiny collection of bubbles caught in the whirlpool vortex I had created. They were captured in the very center of that whirling, clockwise venture, continuously moving but locked in position in the middle of my cup. I could see the steam from the coffee emanate up in ghostly swirls, mimicking the direction of motion before disappearing into the air.

As the spinning coffee lost its momentum, the bubbles slowed and attempted to escape their restraint. The exact center of the vortex was their safest place, however, equally confining them to the middle of the flow while constantly trying to pull them toward the outer edge of the cup itself. As motion receded and receded, the bubbles threatened even more to break free ... but it wasn't quite time yet.

It was a good minute and more I watched the contents of my cup, waiting to witness the bubbles' final break away. And then ... there it was. The swirling came to a crawl and - suddenly and with a frantic rush - the entire group of bubbles shot quickly to an edge of the cup's interior, violently colliding with other bubbles already there. None burst though - the ones in the middle simply crashed into the cup and commingled with the others.

I picked up my coffee and took a sip and sighed. It was good to sit and relax with a warm beverage on an early morning, free from any needs or callings of The Unbelievables. I had no idea where Jeff was. I had no idea where Clark was. I didn't know where any of the Unbelieva-Babes were. I had no knowledge of any of the whereabouts of our arch enemies.

All was calm and quiet. A rare day to reflect, indeed, on this Memorial Day morn.

And then? I got a call ...

Weather or not!

"Is there really something sinister going on? (Frogs just don't fall out of the sky, you know.) Let's see what Clark comes up with ... "

The answer: Kinda.
As mentioned previously, I was outside buffing The (latest inCARnation of the) Unbelievamobile and having a heck of a time dealing with the swift and nasty changes in the environment. Frogs do indeed mess up a car's exterior in that they have some mass to them and not only do they scuff a high shine, but they actually put dents in the fenders. I staggered inside, a little woozy from being frog-smacked and said, "Hey guys?". Jeff and Michael replied simultaneously, "Yeah, we know. It's probably the Ex-Weathermen." I knew what needed to be done immediately and after I ate a sandwich and washed it down with a root beer, it was one of the things I did next. I asked if they wanted to help me and they asked, again in unison, "Does it involve going outside?" and I said of course. They replied, in perfect harmony, "Nah, we're going to stay inside and hope it's nice out again in time for the nude croquet tournament we're hosting together later tonight." The two of them being in such perfect sync was starting to get a little weird so I was happy to take this one on by myself.
I booked a charter flight to Tampa, Florida, where Roy Leep, formerly of Channel 13 WTVT and the leader of the nefarious Ex-Weathermen lives in his fortress-like weather obilisk.

See, what most people don't know is that back before we invented the internet the internet was invented, TV weathermen actully did create and control the weather. As they became obsolete, their TV stations started forcing those guys into retirement. Their bitterness and resentment as Ex-Weathermen is understandable when you know the background. Still, we simply can't have these tempermental outbursts.
I rang the tower's doorbell but there was no answer. I launched a grappling hook with a rope attached and used that to scale the outside of the tower, a task made that much more difficult by on-again, off-again hail showers. I got to the top and made my way inside, prepared to fight Leep and his cronies to the death if necessary. That's when I saw them, the whole group, running around and frantically fiddling with dials and meters. All the machinery, which was supposed to have been dormant since the early '90s was humming at full capacity. Leep saw me and yelled, "We can't figure out how to get this damn thing to record one program while we watch something else!" It seemed that they had been trying to program a DVR, got frustrated when it didn't work and had just started pushing every button they could get their fingers on. Leep was embarrassed. "Sorry about that. Obviously, modern technology hasn't been kind to me and my colleagues." I told him not to worry about it; technology is pretty pervasive and we all get over our heads sometimes. Then I helped them turn off all the weather machinery, figure out the DVR and then we all watched the first two episodes of "24" together, laughing at Jack Bauer. They thanked me as I got ready to go and asked if there was anything they could do to make it up. I looked at my watch and remembered Jeff and Michael's nude croquet tournament. I said, "Do you guys think you could do a really sudden freezing rain over Stiletto Flats in about an hour?". They gave me a thumbs-up and I left with a smile on my face.

Looks Like (Dallas) Rain(es)

I came bursting into the Unbelieva-base in a huff: "Hey, Jeff!"

I heard him call from somewhere down the hall: "What?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the control room with the Unbelieva-Babes, eating some whipped potatoes ..."

Sure enough, there he was. "Oh ... there you are. (Hello, Ladies!) Holy crap chips! Have you been outside today? It's insane out there! There's some really weird weather going on!"

"I know."

"I went out first thing this morning and caught the most gorgeous sunrise ..."

"Nice ..."

"Then, about ten minutes later, there was this freak hailstorm!

"Really?"

"Come 7:30? Snow! But just for a couple minutes ..."

"You don't say ..."

"Strangely, a clap of thunder stopped the snow cold in its tracks ..."

"Wow ..."

"The rest of the morning? And right into lunchtime? Nothing but baking hot sunshine."

"Imagine that."

"It didn't last though. There was an hour straight where it decided to rain ..."

"Huh. I bet there was flooding."

"Yeah! Flash flooding, even! In Stiletto Flats! Can you believe it?"

"Strange ..."

"Weirder still, it was beautiful the remainder of the afternoon. Sunny as all get out."

"That is weird ..."

"Yeah ... but then? Out of nowhere? A tornado hit!"

"Jeez ..."

"Oh ... it gets better. The tornado lasted just a blink of an eye. The rain came back after that ... then it turned into a plague of frogs! All in the space of 25 minutes after the sunshine dissipated ..."

"You know," Jeff confessed "I knew all those things already ...."

"... and yet ... you let me drone on and on about it."

Jeff shrugged.

"You know what this means?" I asked him.

In unison we said: "The X-Weathermen."

We paused dramatically to take it all in. Well ... I did, anyway.

"You have any idea where Clark is at?" I asked.

"Yeah ... he's out washing the 'Vette. All those turns in the weather, you know how particular he is about keeping the car clean. I would have loved to have been there when the frogs came down and splattered all over it. He must have freaked out ..."

"Aaahh Freak out! Le Freak ... C'est Chic" I commented and danced out of the room waving at the ladies.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In every corner of America, there's television news. Specific channels devoted to the news of the day, available morning, noon and night.

If there's news? There's certain to be weather reports. And along with them? The men and women who cover weather reports:

The Weather Reporters.

In my old stomping grounds - the Los Angeles area - there have been many of weather reporters through the years. Fritz Coleman ... Dallas Raines ... Johnny Mountain ... and good old George Fischbeck to many a few.

Year in and year out, they've been trusted by the adoring public to bring their unique brand of flavors and personalities on what tomorrow holds in store for us weather-wise ...

Fritz Coleman

"Weatherman" (*cough, cough*) ... comedian ... but not a meteorologist.

He's a comedian. (Really. He's done the comedy club circuit for ages.) Like many popular weather anchors, he serves as a "weather reporter" ... not a meteorologist. Why? He doesn't have a degree. (Underlying translation: Sounds suspicious.)


Dallas Raines

The fact he looks like a deranged David Lynch doesn't help Dallas' cause ...

Chief meteorologist certified by the American Meteorological Society. Bachelor of Science from Florida State University where he studied broadcast journalism and earth science with emphasis on meteorology. Daily News People's Choice Award for Best Weatherperson, an American Cancer Society Man of the Year, possesses a Golden Mike Award for Best Weathercast and an Associated Press Award for Best Weather Segment. Raines is popular for his signature "moves" during his forecast stints such as the "Dallas dip", the swirl, the fist pump and the golf swing. (Underlying translation: Sounds suspicious.)

Johnny Mountain

"Johnny Mountain" ... ??? Really? Tell me that isn't a stage name ...

Likeable and "Average Joe-ish" to a fault. He was recognizable on various Los Angeles stations from 1978 until his retirement in 2010 as part of "as part of a 'restructuring' of KCBS Channel 2 news operations." (Uh huh. Underlying translation: Sounds suspicious.)

Dr. George Fischbeck 

Never, ever underestimate the grandfatherly demeanor ...

And then? One of the most popular meteorologist ever to grace a cathode ray tube: Dr. George Fischbeck. Originally an Albuguergue, New Mexico television weatherman in the early 1960s, Fischbeck made his Los Angeles presence known in 1972 when he moved to KABC-TV becoming a staple of the local Eyewitness News. He retired in 1997.




(Yeah ... that goofy, loveable personality will only get you so far. But ... what's beneath that exterior? What's he truly thinking? That's what we really want to know. In other words: Sounds suspicious.)

So ... what do all these guys have in common? (Beside being weathermen I mean?)

Let's put it this way: How would you hold up if it was your job to report something to the masses that turned out to be correct only one-fifth of the time?

Want a little perspective? Imagine yourself in school, you take a test and you come up with less than 70% on it. That means you're barely staying afloat with a grade of "D" academically.

A weatherman's success rate? That one-fifth marker works out to a mere 20%. It doesn't matter what angle you're looking at it from, that's a damned depressing statistic from a career standpoint. Would you be satisfied at your current job if everything you did worked out only 20% of the time? 

Bottom Line: There's ample evidence pointing to the possibility of a secret society of weather people (whether or not they are "official" and hold meteorological credentials or are simply on-air personalities who love the spotlight) who, when you look at the profession they've chosen, could very well be using their vast experiences to initiate mayhem in the air up there. And world wide ... not just in Stiletto Flats.

Is there really something sinister going on? (Frogs just don't fall out of the sky, you know.) Let's see what Clark comes up with  ...

The Weather Report

What a strange day it's been here at the Unbelievabase. No actual crimes to deal with, just some really weird weather. First, there was that gorgeous sunrise. Then, about ten minutes later, a freak hailstorm. Then at around 7:30 a.m., two minutes of snow, a clap of thunder and then nothing but baking hot sunshine until about 12:15, when suddenly it rained for an hour straight, causing flash floods in Stiletto Flats. Then it was beautifully sunny for the rest of the afternoon, then we had a tornado, a rain shower and a plague of frogs in the space of 25 minutes.

"That?"  you may exclaim."That's nothing but climate change! Or the earth drifting out of orbit. Or the second coming of Jeebus. Or one of those, you know, magnetic thingies."

Maybe. But I suspect it may be the work of the X-Weathermen.

Who are the X-Weathermen, you cry?

I can't believe we haven't told you already.

The X-Weathermen are a group of has-been meteorologists who got too old, retired or were just plain fired in favour of today's new, young, hot, hip and let's face it sexy weatherpersons (let's be honest - it's mostly ladies (Hello, ladies!) these days) and they are out for revenge. (The X-Weathermen, that is - not the hot young sexy peeps).

Their leader, a man known only as Jack Scott, appears benign and kindly, doesn't he? But don't let that fool you. Underneath that genial exterior beats a heart of pure uranium. Or at least, it did - until he passed away a while back. But we Unbelievables have a strong suspicion that he faked his own passing and is still secretly at the controls, hidden away in a secret location somewhere in Surrey.

At his right hand is Trevor Baker, former Southern and TVS weather guy, whose failed chat show "Trevor Baker's All-Weather Show" (and no, I am NOT making this up) spelled the beginning of the end of Trevor's TV reign. So he's righteously peed off.

Then there are the other miscreants...

 John Kettley, a man whose TV career could not be saved, even after being made the subject of a hit single.

Ron Lobeck, ever vigilant, looking at some infernal device, no doubt.

The always dapper and dangerous Bill Giles.

Michael Fish and his fiendish sweaters.

The utterly psychotic Ian McCaskill (no relation to Schlomo McCaskill, the world's only Scottish-Jewish-American FBI agent).

And completing the lineup we have the innocent and sweet-looking Barbara Edwards. Trust me, the only reason butter wouldn't melt in her mouth is because she is a total ice queen. Believe me, I tried. No luck at all.

So rest assured the Unbelievables take the matter of weird weather very seriously indeed, because you never know... it could be the dark deeds of the X-Weathermen!

Of Cat Faces and Bum Legs

Look:

I don't know what all the big deal is with "Shifty-Leg" Solar Sue and the guys' interest between she and I but I'm here to tell you I WASN'T THE CAUSE OF THE TWISTY POSITION OF HER BUM LEG ... !!!

And that's final!

Let it be known I respect Captain Space and Solar Sue ... and even Bleep-Blorp isn't that bad a piece of machinery. (He's useful on occasion.)

Cosmo, on the other hand ... well ... as I've usually said: The only good cat is a flat cat. They don't pay attention, they're pains in the ass who do their own things without regard and they secretly suck the life-breath out of you when you sleep at night. (Here's one more little tidbit about the foursome: Steve Space isn't partial to Cosmo either - he tolerates the furball just to keep Sue on the happy side of the fence.)

I thought about detailing the time The Unbelievables and our interplanetary compatriots joined forces shortly before we put the Unbelieva-Base in order at our digs in Stiletto Flats, Nevada ... but I'm not quite certain that's declassified. Because ... you know ... it has to do with Sue's bum appendage ... possibly.

Guess I'm going to have to get clearance for that first ...

Kraktos, Explained

Captain Space, Solar Sue and Cosmo, along with the infinitesimally astounding Bleep-Blorp, will now explain about the constant threat posed by The Globe Gobbler, Kraktos.

CAPTAIN SPACE:"Well, folks, this is Kraktos.

Kraktos is called the Globe Gobbler because, well, that's what he does. He floats around the galaxy looking for stray planets that nobody will miss much, and than, whenever he feels peckish, gobbling them."

SOLAR SUE:"You said it, Cap! He sure is a hungry one!"

COSMO:" Miaow!"

BLEEP-BLORP: "Bleep! Blorp-bleep! Blorrp!"

CAPTAIN SPACE: "Exactly. Well, a lot of good honest folks don't quite know what to make of this sort of thing. All the time I get asked questions like, 'Captain Space, why does Kraktos do what he does? Why's he so hungry all the time, Captain Space? Captain Space, what gives with this fellow?' and y'know, I understand their frustration and perplexment, I really do. And I gotta tell ya, it was something that made us scratch our ol' noggins a time or two, that's for sure!"

SS: "You said it, Cap! We didn't know what was going on!"

C:" Miaaaoowwee!!"

B-B: "Bleeepp-blip-blip-blip blorrrp bloob!"

CS: "Well, a while ago we found out more about this here Kraktos character. Turns out he started life as an Earthling - an Iowa boy to be exact. And wouldn't ya know it - his kid sister runs a little lunch counter-cum-tavern in Grafton called - wait for it -  "The Gobbler's Roost"!

Best biscuits and sausage gravy from here to Mason City.

Yes, there she is, proudly purveying her fried chicken stripettes with tequila slammers, Darla Storakk (an anagram of Kraktos!) says lil' brother Eddie (Kraktos' real name) had a raging appetite from day one. He ate from morning till night, becoming so big that he needed a winch to get him on the school bus. This led to a lot of bullying from which he never recovered, poor lil' fella."

SS: "You said it, Cap! He had a lot of issues!"

C: "Mee-yooowww!!"

B-B: "Blob blob blobbb!"

CS: "Hey, now, cool it, Bleep-Blorp! Enough with the fat jokes! Well, he got so big that one day he just simply took right off into the air like a blimp, into the ionosphere, higher and higher until he finally just started floating around in space, looking for his next meal. We figure if he ever does choose to eat the Earth, he'll start at The Gobbler's Roost! If he does, by golly, we'll be ready and waiting!"

SS: "You said it, Cap! Pass the deep-fried potato skins and a Jager bomb!"

C: "Meeeeee-oooo...ow."

B-B: "Blorp blop! Bleeb!"

CS: " Now Bleep-Blorp! I've told you before, Solar Sue does NOT have a drinking problem! She simply has trouble unwinding after a hard day's crimefighting in space! That, and her leg still gives her serious gyp."

Thanks, Captain Space and friends. Now we know more about Kraktos, we can rest a little easier at night.

Our interplanetary pals

A lot of people wonder if we, The Unbelievables, restrict our butt-kicking crime fighting and general good guy-ery to the planet earth.  We do. Not because there isn't villainy afoot among the stars and not because we don't want to, because there is and we don't. But there are actually people better suited to that kind of thing. Specifically, our chums Captain Space and Solar Sue. What are the odds that a guy named Steve Space would grow up to be a commissioned astronaut flying around the Milky Way, busting space smugglers and battling star squids? Probably about the same as meeting a girl named Solar Sue with similar interests. Together with their cat Cosmo, they designed a crime fighting robot named Bleep-Blorp for which George Lucas should probably be thankful he hasn't been sued. Speaking of Sue, her seriously deformed left leg (injured under mysterious circumstances that Michael always refuses to discuss, for some reason) frequently leads to her being taken hostage and put in sexy metallic outfits before eventually being rescued by Captain Space, Cosmo and Bleep-Blorp. Other than those sporadic setbacks, this is a formidable team and we can all sleep better at night, knowing that they will blow up any eclipses that threaten to trigger the rise of Kraktos, The Globe Gobbler.
Let's see what Jeff and Michael have to say about these asteroidinal do-gooders!

On Friday, Someone DIEs

So far, we had very little to go on. We had this note...

We had an injury (Clark got struck by a rock, making the first part of the note come true)...

And we had a hunch. "Well, if it turns out to be legit, it's probably the work of D I-ngo Serra" said Clark.

And we had a prediction - "Friday someone DIES!!" 

I decided to find out all I could about this D I-ngo Serra person. What sort of person has a name with a hyphen after a capital letter and before a consonant? Someone with a slim grasp on the English language, I'll wager. But more of that later - I had some research to do.

The first and most obvious thing to do would be to see if this blatherskite Serra had a Facebook page.  I am not sure if you've heard of it - it's quite popular with the kids, I am given to understand. 

Sure enough, D-Ingo Serra DID have a Facebook page. I immediately set to looking at the photos that were posted there. Hmm. To say they were enigmatic was an understatement. If there were people in the pictures, their faces were obscured or turned away. If they were by some haphazard chance not blurry or fuzzy, there was no way of knowing (a)whether it was indeed D I-ngo, and (b)whether it was male or female. So I ended up drawing a blank.

I took my lack of findings to the guys. We scratched our heads. We scratched our gentleman's areas. Then, we danced the hoochie-koochie. We were well and truly stumped.

And then, this morning, it all began to unravel.

Firstly, Clark left right after breakfast, which was unusual even for him. In cases like this, when direct threats have been made against us, we usually stay on task until the job is done. But Clark said he had just remembered he had a hair appointment and had to hurry on to the salon. Unusual, really - his hair is immaculate most every day and I've never known him use the services of anyone other than the Unbelievababes. Still - if he had an appointment, then who were Michael and myself to rock the boat. We trusted Clark and figured he knew what he was up to.

Shortly after Clark went for his hair appointment, Michael and I were stuck for answers. We began clutching at straws. Then we clutched at pretzels. Then we clutched at the vacuum cleaner. Anything to try to come up with some ideas.

It was while vacuuming the Unbelievadesk for the sixth time this morning that Michael finally noticed something. A full-color half-page ad on the back of the Yellow Pages.

Now, this got our attention, not least because it is 2014 already and there are still people in the world using Comic Sans.

That bad spelling... the word 'Dingo'... a hair salon... the word 'dieing'... Clark having a hair appointment... it was all starting to make sense. Especially with that '$5 off' thing. Not saying that Clark's a cheapskate, but...

We needed no second bidding. Michael and I bolted to the car and hightailed it to this place of bad spelling and hair products. The way we saw it, Clark was walking into a trap, although what sort of a trap had yet to be seen. 

We screeched to a halt outside, even though we'd only gone four blocks. Rushing in, we found Clark, sitting in the chair. This, ladies and gentlemen, is how our compadre looked.

Shocked, we started to try to tell Clark that he had walked smack dab into a trap, when we were interrupted in our friend-advising-endeavours by none other than D I-ngo Serra her(him?)self (we're still unsure). 

"Ah, the Unbelieva-gents. Care to take a seat? I'm just about finished with your friend here. What'll it be? Crew cut? Short back and sides? Mullet?"

"Not so fast, you illiterate fiend," snarled Michael. "We know what you're up to. You're going to try to kill one of us, aren't you? That's your evil plan! Well, I'd like to see you try!"

"Yeah," I put in. "What he said!"

"I-I don't understand, guys.." quivered D I-ngo. "I'm just a hairstylist with poor literacy skills. Why would I want to hurt you guys. You guys are my heroes!"

At this point Clark interjected. "Listen boys, it's all very simple. D I-ngo and I had a bit of a falling out. But we made up after I realised that the rock that knocked me unconscious on Wednesday was just D I-ngo's way of reminding me about my hair appointment. I got a dye job!"

"Haha! You mean DIE job, don't you?" I retorted.

"Yes," replied D I-ngo. "I left that note in your mailbox to remind Clark about his appointment. I kinda forgot which one of you guys made the appointment, which is why the note said "someone". I was reminding him that he'd get a reminder (a rock in the noggin) and then on Friday get his hair tinted."

Well, we were shocked. Then we were amazed. Then we all stared at Clark, and Michael said "Buddy, that truly is a DIE job!"

Michael likes to repeat jokes.

Still, we all fell about laughing anyway. Wouldn't you?

"I don't see what's so funny."

On Wednesday, someone got hurt

"Sounds like somebody had a case of the Mondays!", Jeff and I said simultaneously, followed by an awkward exchange of attempted fist bumps and high fives to celebrate how clever we were. "You guys", Michael continued. "I think we need to take this seriously. My Michael Sense is tingling". Jeff responded to the first part of that statement, as our policy is to ignore when Michael refers to his 'Michael Sense', which he seems to believe is some sort of inherent ability to anticipate danger yet only seems to be accurate when it comes to finding clothing-optional recreational sporting events nearby. "Come on, Michael", he said. "We get threatened all the time. Threatening The Unbelievables with doom and dismemberment is practically a cottage industry at this point." I had to agree (Jeff glares at me when I don't agree with him and I find that unsettling). "I agree. If somebody doesn't threaten us at least once a week, I actually get a little depressed", I said. "I don't know", said Michael. "Something seems different about this and I don't like it." "Well, if it turns out to be legit, it's probably the work of D I-ngo Serra", I offered. Jeff and Michael stared at me. "Why would you say that?", Jeff asked. Over the next two days (Because that's the only way this whole story makes sense without asking you, the reader, to believe that it took two whole days to get this far in a relatively short conversation. You'll see why in a second.), I compiled a long list of reasons why I think he or she hates me that I started to read to Jeff and Michael when I was suddenly interrupted just now (if you're reading this on Wednesday, May 7th; if you're reading this at a later date, that's when it happened) by a rock thrown through the window that struck me in the back of the head, knocking me unconscious (See? This is to what I was referring earlier). Ow!
So anyway, it looks like there was something to Michael's 'Michael Sense' after all. Huh. Who knew? It's going to be real interesting around here on Friday! I hope I'm not the one who dies, though.

"Ladies, I don't see why we all can't take turns looking after Clark's head wound."

On Monday, There Was Drama

As is customary, I venture out to the mailbox on Monday mornings and put the bills inside to be picked up by the mailman when he makes his rounds.

This morning? I found a note.

I read it while I stood at the mailbox and then meandered back to the Unbelieva-Base with it to show the guys.

I ran into Clark first and asked: "Hey ... did you pay the electric bill?"

"Yep," he replied.

Jeff walked in on us just then. "You didn't gripe anyone's cookies by parking in two spots simultaneously when you went to the store the other day, did you Jeff?" I asked him.

"Not that I recall," he replied.

"Well ... we might have a problem," I told them and showed them the note I discovered ...

Advice for the would-be gentleman would-be chef

It would appear that Jeff and Michael have covered every single thing in the universe that any female enjoys (if you thought that list would be much longer, you're WRONG and STUPID). However, to my relief, they did leave one item for me, and it's a big one.
WOMEN LOVE A MAN WHO CAN COOK
Listen, dancing and robots are awesome (especially if you combine those two things) but absolutely nothing, NOTHING heats a lady's oven like a dude who knows his way around a stovetop. "But I don't know how to cook", you simper like a simpering simpleton. Stop that! You're a man. You may or may not know what a whisk is, how to prepare a proper Béchamel sauce or what kind of wine goes with flamingo but those are details. The fact is as a male, you are genetically predisposed to applying fire to stuff and putting it in your mouth. Besides, this is a case where presentation is virtually everything. Get into the kitchen and start opening and closing cabinets while stirring things up in various pots and pans and just watch the eggs fire out of your lady's ovaries like rounds from a M240B machine gun. This is something that women find irresistibly adorable. If you actually produce something remotely edible, consider it a bonus. "But seriously, Clark", you continue to protest, "I know zero recipes". Okay, I can see where you might think that's a drawback. For that reason, I am listing a number of dishes that you should have the items for in your 'fridge and that you should be able to figure out just from the name. Simply get the items you think each dish requires, smoosh them up (together or individually) and apply some heat, along with your natural man instincts, and you should end up in the "close enough" territory.
Weiner Hash
Cheez Platter
Salad Dressing Sandwich Surprise
Coq au Vin Americano(chicken chunks in Kool Aid)
Deep Fried Gravy Nuggets
Choco-ghetti-o's
Egg Yellows

Remember, your presentation is key! Keep it classy and you're in!

"Yep, them's MY drawers tonight!"