Where are all the octo-pies?
All right, all right, my stuff is mostly steampunkish. Steampunk-like. Steampunkesque. As far as I can tell, true steampunkishness requires you to show things that would ordinarily require electronics, internal combustion, or magic as going along just fine on clockwork. And the gears should show. A clockwork TV, for example, would have little pullies and levers, and at least vacuum tubes in the back. And the screen would look like Captain Nemo's diving helmet. (Hey, didn't I have a TV like that once?) And it would certainly be in black and white. And have Edgar Allen Poe reading poetry on it. Don't ask me why, but you need Edgar to be truly steampunkish. Edgar and octopusses. Octo-pies. Octopiddles. Whatever. Which brings me to Walmart.
You can't do Cthulhu without octo - multiple eight legged sea life. I'm not even going to explain that. If you don't understand now, you won't. But take it from me, if you want to do steampunk, you need octos. And everybody knows that if you can get it at Walmart, you can get it cheaper.
So at the Walmart in our town, they keep this bin of sea life jewelry parts on a lower shelf, where you have to crouch to dig through it. Now I have heard that Walmart goes through every bit of its inventory every week, so that sea life bin must get emptied and restocked quite often. So, I ask you, where are all the octos? There should be at least eight of them in a freshly opened bin. So why are there none when I go in? Our town's not that big! How many metal octopus-thingies can one little town absorb in a week?
I was determined to find out who was getting all my octos! So last Wednesday I hung around in the scrapbook aisle all day to find out who it was. I was there so long they started to get suspicious. I moved over to plastic bins, but that darned floor manager found me there, too. She threatened to call my daughter to come take me home, but I said I'd tell her husband about her and me going over to the I-Hop for lunch to look at the new waiter.
And then it happened. In walks the octopus poacher, right past me and Carolee arguing by the dish towels, prances right over to that freshly opened bin of sea life, and takes all eight octopusses! It was a kid! A junior-high-schooler with sprinked up hair and spiky eyelashes, wearing tights that looked like somebody painted blue jeans on her, and high-heeled boots! A kid!
Carolee wouldn't let me assault her. I wouldn't have hurt her. I just wanted to know what she was doing with all of them octopiddles. Giving them out to her friends? Making whole chains of octo-pies? Was she selling on Etsy, too? It's bad enough that teenage girls get tight little bodies, and a thousand years of life left, and somebody to cook and clean up after them. They don't have to worry about whether social security will run out, or if they've got enough in their bank account for their high blood pressure medicine, or whether the Democrats will get into office again, and run the country into the ground, or whether it will be the Republicans, who will tie up the budget tighter than a fifteen-year-old's jeans and leave nothing dripping down to us retired people. No, they don't have to worry about any of that, and they get all the octopuddles, too!
Well, I've got her number now, the selfish little brat. I know when the junior high lets out. I know when their lunch hour is, too. All I have to do is get there before her, and sneak all eight octos right from under her nose! I'll just grab 'em before she gets there. I could get all eight of them that way.
All eight.
Oh.
You can't do Cthulhu without octo - multiple eight legged sea life. I'm not even going to explain that. If you don't understand now, you won't. But take it from me, if you want to do steampunk, you need octos. And everybody knows that if you can get it at Walmart, you can get it cheaper.
So at the Walmart in our town, they keep this bin of sea life jewelry parts on a lower shelf, where you have to crouch to dig through it. Now I have heard that Walmart goes through every bit of its inventory every week, so that sea life bin must get emptied and restocked quite often. So, I ask you, where are all the octos? There should be at least eight of them in a freshly opened bin. So why are there none when I go in? Our town's not that big! How many metal octopus-thingies can one little town absorb in a week?
I was determined to find out who was getting all my octos! So last Wednesday I hung around in the scrapbook aisle all day to find out who it was. I was there so long they started to get suspicious. I moved over to plastic bins, but that darned floor manager found me there, too. She threatened to call my daughter to come take me home, but I said I'd tell her husband about her and me going over to the I-Hop for lunch to look at the new waiter.
And then it happened. In walks the octopus poacher, right past me and Carolee arguing by the dish towels, prances right over to that freshly opened bin of sea life, and takes all eight octopusses! It was a kid! A junior-high-schooler with sprinked up hair and spiky eyelashes, wearing tights that looked like somebody painted blue jeans on her, and high-heeled boots! A kid!
Carolee wouldn't let me assault her. I wouldn't have hurt her. I just wanted to know what she was doing with all of them octopiddles. Giving them out to her friends? Making whole chains of octo-pies? Was she selling on Etsy, too? It's bad enough that teenage girls get tight little bodies, and a thousand years of life left, and somebody to cook and clean up after them. They don't have to worry about whether social security will run out, or if they've got enough in their bank account for their high blood pressure medicine, or whether the Democrats will get into office again, and run the country into the ground, or whether it will be the Republicans, who will tie up the budget tighter than a fifteen-year-old's jeans and leave nothing dripping down to us retired people. No, they don't have to worry about any of that, and they get all the octopuddles, too!
Well, I've got her number now, the selfish little brat. I know when the junior high lets out. I know when their lunch hour is, too. All I have to do is get there before her, and sneak all eight octos right from under her nose! I'll just grab 'em before she gets there. I could get all eight of them that way.
All eight.
Oh.
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