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« on: January 20, 2014, 03:50:49 pm »
Bleeps.
I am on the bridge, on a pitch black night in space. A sudden layer of static in the climate-controlled night muffles the screen, and obscures the creeps. It is about 20 degrees Celcius, so maybe 68 Fahrenheit, and a light and steady air condition blows from the north. I just finished smoking a doobie, and am now sipping a Mr. Coffee and finishing a can of Perri-Air.
Across the reasonable sized bridge stands Dark Helmet and Colonel Sanders. You see, when I decided to take this job, I accepted responsibility for Mr. Radar, and radar in this part of the bridge is a serious affair. The ones at the other end of the bridge are Azzholes, and there's more than 15 of them. And they stand at about 6 feet tall. The inner structure of the military is complex and ancient - and full of Azzholes.
This night, my 72 year old Mr. Radar was trying to help me with tracking the creeps, and we sent the sweeps with a huge wave like whales. No, not like dolphins. It was not a great display of finesse. It reminded me of a documentary I saw as a child where a whale swam through an ocean, knocking boats all along his path to give a more terrifying impression to a rival. The rival did the same, and they settled peacefully, but not before they had a chance to posture and make a lot of unnecessary noise at each other. Yeah. No. We sent the sweeps like whales. Anyway, it was a good day, totally exhausting, and the end result was losing the bleeps, the sweeps, and the creeps.
I am wearing one pair of white pants, a black shirt and white button-up shirt over that, and a huge white plastic bubble-shaped helmet. I can't hold out forever, so I pick up my intercom and announce "I'm having trouble with the radar sir." It appears to be... jammed!
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