Friday, November 7, 2003

I’m sitting a mere six feet from Splotch right now, gentle reader, and he’s giving me the eye. In his look rest a hundred pointed inquiries including one very pertinent to you and me: Why aren’t you communicating with me? To Splotch I would answer, “Why, because I don’t speak Rabblish.” To you I will provide a slightly longer explanation.

You see, dear reader, the recent release of Elf simply bookended a long string of slights cast upon your dear CEO. While I was away on a joyride along the Limpopo River, I received word that my wonderfully excessive skyscraper was razed by a vocal minority of “Citizens against Hilarious Experimentation on Sentient Monkeys.” I would’ve enjoyed negotiating with them–Buckshotnese would’ve been my dialect of choice–but business prevented me from doing so. I gunned my hovercraft, hauling ass to the skyscraper only to find my life’s work in smoldering ruin. Ethernet cords snaked here and there like confused worms, and the sun beat down on a noontime panorama of mayhem.

“What a grand stroke of luck!” I thought. I originally wanted to renovate by installing solid gold elevators and diamond-coated bidets, but the thought of adding to something old struck me as infinitely plebian. All I need to do is dip into one of my twelve Swiss bank accounts (run by real Swiss people) and build a new skyscraper real quick-like.

That’s about it. I figured that being upfront with you would be the best policy.