Kaebot Model Eight has pulled less than her fair share of weeds this afternoon. (It should be noted she believes it to be morning due to her aforementioned malady.) She rests gloved, belly-side-down, in the shade as the TRMBot prepares the lawnmower. Model Eight hopes it fails to start lest she have to move. The mower betrays her.

TRMBot pushes the machine along the yard’s outermost stretch. It grazes the garden and the Kaebot rolls over to admire the dirt and the dust as they reveal themselves in the sunlight. She flops around until she finds herself standing. With exactly one sixteenth ounce of intention, she sets course to retrieve the weed eater and follow the TRMBot’s path, passionately hoping a dragonfly or flutterby will materialize to distract her. They must be busy.

Standing in the shed, like every shed she’s ever been in, she can see what she’s breathing. There, Eight sizes up the weed eater. Her shoulders begin to hurt.

A muffled cry: “Eight! They’re here for you!”

Ever the shed zombie, she peels the door away. The sun conspicuously absent, a shadow asserts itself upon the neighborhood. More relived than curious, she humors the TRMBot who is pointing hastily at the sky.

It’s aliens and they’re here to teach her the secrets of the universe and take her to space to be space-awesome forever and ever and ever.

PEACE OUT SUCKERS!!!!

I hate yardwork and also am lazy the end.

The Seattle Bear left a flaming grocery bag of poop on your doorstep.
The Seattle Bear watched you enter your PIN.
The Seattle Bear watched you whack it.
The Seattle Bear watched you watch her.
The Seattle Bear keyed your car.
The Seattle Bear got the last sandwich at Paseo.
The Seattle Bear banged your mom.
The Seattle Bear banged your girlfriend.
The Seattle Bear banged your mom and girlfriend.
The Seattle Bear is swine flu.
The Seattle Bear stole your Netflix DVDs then knocked over your mailbox.
The Seattle Bear told all those ladies that you have E.D.
The Seattle Bear spoiled American Idol for you.
The Seattle Bear wonders what color panties you’re wearing.
The Seattle Bear did your crossword puzzle.
The Seattle Bear isn’t ever giving those DVDs back.
The Seattle Bear put the milk back in the fridge even though it was empty.
The Seattle Bear plays the guitar shittily and still gets all the ladies.
The Seattle Bear talked through the whole movie.
The Seattle Bear is your father, Luke.
The Seattle Bear misled you into believing there were good reasons for going into Iraq.
The Seattle Bear “didn’t get your voicemail”.

The Seattle Bear is an asshole and old news.

My brand of sexy is unique.

Maybe pizza will bring her back to us. (Just click the link.)

To all of my fans who have written me asking for guidance on this matter, do not fret. Eating as a professional is still the most renowned and beautiful art of all our nation’s pasttimes. (And they say America never came up with anything besides Jazz.)

My children, I now know what must be done. I, being the natural best, must beat the game. Literally. I’ll beat the essbomb right out of it. Digital, intangible substance be damned! I understand that I will be known the world over and YES I know that even though I seek none of it, I will be adorned with riches that I will selfishly squander on golden cars and golden arches, turning my back on all the little McBears out there. But worry not, I will never forget where I came from. I promise, I will still like to get high**.

*and consequently get high.
**high in protein?

Also, check out what an image search of “Close your tags” turns up. Did not expect that. Also, not a raven.

For my girl, Miko.