Cake and Failure

August 28, 2013

Dear Diary,

Contrary to what the movies suggest, you can not shove an automatic weapon through the cavity of full grown man and expect it to keep on shooting. It gets clogs up with wet bits and eventually jams. Now I have to completely change my plan of attack on the Retro Dome. Which sucks because I thought zombie shields sounded like a genuinely good idea.

I am not going to take the blame for this one. This failure lies entirely on Shelly’s shoulders. Shelly is the head of Fowler Inc’s biology labs. Or at least she was. I haven’t decided if she still has a job, that German moron. Like most of my staff, she’s just one disappointment after another. This whole “using zombies as living shields” thing is just the icing on a big, fat, failure cake. Wait. Cake might be a bad metaphor.

I love cake.

I hate failure.

Note to self: Get the kitchen to send up a cake. I want cake. Now.

Caligula seems to think the chief of biology is a position better held by a man. I disagree. I don’t see how having a schlong makes someone better equipped to hold any particular position. Except maybe a male porn star. I mean, you can make a strap-on only look so real. Though, as long as you aren’t looking directly at it, you can’t really tell the difference, can you? If you wrap your hand around it, or your mouth, sure you can tell.

Trust me on this.

I don’t think of myself as a feminist, but I do believe Caligula is biased in favor of men because he is a male. I don’t say man, because he hasn’t been a real ‘man’ cat for years, if you get my drift. My point is that men and women have been equally disappointing to me. I hold no special hatred for men just because every single one I hire has been a complete and total screw up. Save for Bart, of course. Bart is the exception to every rule, including genetic manipulation, cloning, stem cell research, bio engineering, chemical warfare … the list just goes on and on.

Future villains and villainesses beware: Growing your own minion in a vat is a costly venture. You probably won’t have enough resources to invest in more than one. So, make sure you get it right the first time. It isn’t like mixing a big batch of ice cream and churning it until it’s done. It takes loads of science and high end technology and just a bit of luck. Lucky me, Bart came out just right.

Note to self: Get them to send up some ice cream with the cake.

Again, my point is that while most of the men under my employment have been failures, so have the women. I am an equal opportunity employer. I have hired an equal amount of men and women in my line of work. I have also fired an equal amount as well … from a cannon into the heart of the volcano that heats my underground lair. What can I say? I consider myself a fair boss lady. Do right by me and I reward you with another day of life. Cross me and, well, you get the idea.

Anywho, the zombie shields are a no go. To make matters worse, I can’t get the stink of dead out of my hair. It even got under my nails. And why is it I cant stop sniffing my hands? Geesh. I know they are going to stink, but I keep on smelling them. It’s like when you pick at your belly button, and you know that finger is going to smell like ass, but you bring it to your nose anyways. Then you actually flinch at the horrible scent, as if you somehow hoped it would smell like roses. Or is that just me?  Please say that isn’t just me, because I do the same thing when I scratch my ass.

Who knew zombies would deteriorate so easily? Mine took just a half dozen bullets to the stomach and all but exploded in my arms. I guess the reason is pretty obvious. They are walking corpses, for Pete’s sake. Yet, like a world class moron, I expected a tougher zombie. When I strapped her into her own zombie feeding tank, Shelly pointed out I didn’t ask for super tough zombies, just regular zombies. I had to go back and read the order form, and I hate to say she is right. I didn’t specify super tough zombies. So, maybe it isn’t all her fault. But it was her idea, and while it was original I can’t ignore the total failure of it. Thank evil we were just running a drill and not on a real mission.

Speaking of being a fair boss lady, I hate to reward originality with infection, but damn it! I can’t just let her go unpunished. Besides, it’s probably too late to rescue her from her own creations. I can hear the zombies shuffling into the feeding hall right now. Ah well, perhaps I can hit her with the intellect enhancer ray and have myself a zombie chief of biology.

Oh, I rather like the sound of that.

Note to self: Get them to send some porn with the ice cream and cake.

Until we meet again,

Sylvia

Artsy Fartsy

August 19, 2013

Dear Diary,

I had the most wonderful surprise presented to me today. Though, I don’t know why it should be a surprise. It seems perfectly logical that someone would want to sketch my likeness. After all, I am quite beautiful and clever and a wonder to behold. It is only natural that others see that in me. As a result, one of my minions, Denise, has outdone herself. Despite her limitations of not being me, she managed to find the wherewithal to create a thing of beauty—a picture of me!

Here is a little portrait she worked up of a typical day for me:

I am considering removing Denise from the shark feeding department and promoting her to assistant manager of the doomsday device department. Bart has complained about needing an aide to help sketch working drafts for Dr. Astic. There is no need to let such a talent go to waste.

And I can always find someone else for the sharks to eat. I hope it’s not too late.

Note to self: Begin testing minions for hidden abilities before making them chum.

That’s all I have for you today. I am already late for my therapy session and Dr. Freeman abhors tardiness.

He offered me his watch yesterday to keep up with the time, but I found it hard to wear after I shoved it in that hole I shot in his thigh. Ah, well, I just wanted to drop in and share my excitement about the picture. If she still possesses all of her limbs, I might have her work up even more sketches. I just hope it doesn’t cost me an arm and a leg. Or rather her.

Get it? Shark food? Arm and a leg? HA! I kill me.

Which is good, because if anyone else tried to kill me they would regret it.

Gotta run,

Sylvia

Like A House on Fire

August 14, 2013

Dear Diary,

I think I have a yeast infection.

Wait, am I supposed to tell you things like that? I’m not sure. Again, I am at a loss for advice on how to go about doing this. My new therapist, Dr. Freeman, really likes the idea that I am keeping a diary. He agreed with the late Dr. Marcus as to the diary’s effectiveness. Yet he hasn’t been as instructional as I found Dr. Marcus. In fact, he doesn’t say much at all. Perhaps starting each session with a verbal promise that I won’t shoot Dr. Freeman in the head isn’t as good of an idea as I thought it was. Ah well, as they say, therapy is a learning process.

Meanwhile my cooter itches like I’ve got a pack of fire ants setting up shop down there.

Note to self: Send Bart out for vajayjay cream and one hundred gallons of yogurt.

In other news, I scored a small victory against Sterling this week. Well, I say small, but in his eyes I am sure it is tragedy at its worst. You see, I set his girlfriend’s grandmother’s house on fire! I know! It was just shear luck that I discovered her at all, much less was able to set her home ablaze. And no, that wasn’t a typo, you grammar Nazis. I meant shear in every sense of the word. Allow me to explain.

 Last April I decided that my one act of kindness would be donating my luxurious red hair to Curls for Care. It’s a nice little charity that …

Caligula suggests that I back up and explain the whole single act of kindness thing.

Every April, to commemorate the passing of my late parents, I commit one, single, unforgettable act of kindness. I do this mostly out of hate, but partially out of joy that that those goody two shoe parents of mine are finally dead. Nothing like two horribly nice parents kicking the bucket and leaving their only child fabulously wealthy to bring joy to an evil daughter’s heart. Sixteen years I put up with those asshats, and I can’t think of a better way to mock their legacy than to donate my precious time and/or their enormous amounts of money to charity while laughing my ass off about it the whole while.

Caligula argues that I am in fact honoring their memory by my one act of kindness day.

He says potato. I say root vegetable powered ray gun.

Anywho, last April I decided my parental remembrance charity would be Curls for Care, the folks that collect clippings of other people’s hair for wigs and give them to the downtrodden and homeless. At least I think that is what they do with the hair. Truthfully I am not certain. For all I know, they could make wigs for barnyard animals. Although I suspect if hey did something along those lines, they would call the charity Wigs for Pigs, or Hair for Mares or something catchy like that. I mean Curls for Care is pretty good, but Wigs for Pigs has a certain ring to it. Don’t you agree?

Note to self: See if wigsforpigs.com is taken.

How does all of this link back to setting an old fart’s house on fire? Well, not wanting to attract too much attention, I kept to one of the smaller salons that handled Curls for Care donations, and ding dong, ring my bell, guess who cuts hair down at the Klip and Kurl? Sterling’s dashing whore—oops, I meant girlfriend—Linda Lou.

Who knew?

My darling cat just pointed out that I, of course, knew. That’s why I chose the place. Way to ruin a good story, Caligula.

Point being, Linda got all worked up the minute she saw me walk through the door. I tried my best to calm her, but she panicked and called on that man of hers to save the effing day. Even though there was no effing day to save. I wasn’t even doing anything! I just went in for a hair cut! Thankfully, Captain Dummy recognized the date, and granted me amnesty for the afternoon, graciously allowing me to complete my one act of kindness. As if I need that boob’s permission to do good. I can do good all on my own. I don’t need anyone to tell me when and where I can be a do gooder! I think it’s a testament to my willpower that I am able to keep from doing good. Especially since it is so ingrained in my very being all those years. What else can you do when your family coat of arms consists of rainbows and fairies and unicorns? I mean, literally! The whole thing is a bunch of unicorns farting rainbows while little fairies fly around their heads. It takes a superior willpower to break that kind of sanctimonious brainwashing.

Note to self: Burn family coat of arms … for real this time.

Very long story short, Linda Lou cowered in the company of an old bag for most of the time I was at the Klip and Kurl. And by old bag, I don’t mean an antique purse, I mean an elderly lady. Imagine my delight when I witnessed Sterling hug the wrinkly sack of bones as if it were his own flesh and blood! It took a little bit of digging, and a minimal amount of interrogation that resulted only one death, for me to figure out the old woman was Linda’s grandmother. I had kidnapped Linda Lou on many occasions, but it never occurred to me that Sterling might care for other people in the bitch’s family. 

That very night I formulated a plan. And, yes, I understand that plan took almost six months to come to fruition. As I explained before, world domination takes time. I had Bart design me a giant praying mantis, which was set to climb onto the woman’s residence, break in through a window, pluck her from the house, and then fly her back to me. Why a praying mantis? I don’t remember. I think I was going through a bug phase at that time. Must’ve been the spring getting to me. That’s the trouble with these plans; half of what seems important at the time means very little later on.  

Once I apparently asked for a six foot metallic scarecrow with scoop nets for hands.

I still have no idea why. It’s in storage now. Someday I might use it.

Back to the bug, yes? It doesn’t matter why I wanted a bug anyways, because as it turns out, the wiring on the wings was faulty. Instead of kidnapping the woman, it burst into flames, destroying her home. While I was pleased to hear of the fire, I was disappointed to learn the woman escaped alive. Not my Bart’s fault, or Dr. Astic’s, though I was quick to blame him first. No, the wires that Astic’s construction crew used came from a little factory in Peru. The day after the thing caught Linda Lou’s grandmother’s house on fire, the factory sent me an email with a recall on those very same wires. Faulty, was the only excuse they gave. Once I removed Astic from the archery range—as a target, not an archer—I apologized, and sent him to Peru for a week with his favorite toy to exact my revenge.

I hope those Peruvians enjoy swapping sexes before their genitals explode.

Speaking of exploding genitals, I really have to sign off. It is almost impossible to type with my hooha on fire like this. Bart should be back soon with soothing creams. I can’t wait to soak in a yogurt bath. Hopefully, when Astic returns in a few days I will be over this little inconvenience and I can apologize to him properly.

Oh yeah, momma’s getting her some!

See ya on the sexy side,

Sylvia