I said “Woman, I don’t know the first thing about fixin webspaces,” but she just ta-ta’d me and had one of her pet sherpas carry her bags to the zeppelin and left.

I sat in front before one of Gustav’s sinful computer boxes and contemplated the webspace. It looked worse than the crawlspace underneath Mama’s porch with the pile of dead rats and Mittens the cat’s outdoor litter box.

“Well, . . . → Read More: I Shined Up the Ol’ Directorate]]>

Before Miss Ethelie left on her yearly Ice Hotel vacation, she put me in charge of cleaning up the Directorate webspace. This site you’re readin’ right now as you gnaw on your biscuits.

I said “Woman, I don’t know the first thing about fixin webspaces,” but she just ta-ta’d me and had one of her pet sherpas carry her bags to the zeppelin and left.

I sat in front before one of Gustav’s sinful computer boxes and contemplated the webspace. It looked worse than the crawlspace underneath Mama’s porch with the pile of dead rats and Mittens the cat’s outdoor litter box.

“Well, Boggins,” I says to myself, “cleanin up is cleanin up,” and I got to work. I swept away the cobwebs and replaced the burnt-out bulbs and made something truly Boggins-worthy. It wasn’t that hard. A tweak here, a twerk there. I sat back and had myself a bowl of pineapple biscuit stew and admired my work. It’s right nice, I thinks to myself, all shiny and new.

Let me tell you, though. This Webspace design was not in my janitorial services contract, so as a reward I helped myself to some of Miss Ethelie’s laudanum. That’s some powerful stuff, that laudanum; it makes everything swirly and stacked like a pile of bricks. Passed myself out for a while and woke up on Ethelie’s bed. To my purple-headed horror, I found that, in my laudanum haze, I had gotten into the art closet and painted a mural of a verbhound eating a baby duck.

It was graphic.

Miss Ethelie is due back later this evening, and I have a wall to repaint. Miss Ethelie sure wouldn’t enjoy this mural, but I sure hope you enjoy my handiwork on this here Webspace.

Here ya go, from Ma’s old recipe books, straight from her hand.

Ma Boggins’s Coffee and Cranberry Biscuits

No, the darkness here comes from a most unfortunate virus spreading all around these fancy hallways.  Everyone is miserable with a sickness to the stomach, and weeping rashes.  HEE HEE HEE.  From the chickens!

They always laughed at old Boggins, and his raw chicken leg breakfast, every day since I was a little rascal with new teeth in my . . . → Read More: Training Exercise #26: The Chicken Cure]]>

Boggins here.  That’s right, the janitor. Things have been dark around here the last few days.  Not literally.  The agents are all half-blind mole people and this directorate rivals the sun for light on most days.

No, the darkness here comes from a most unfortunate virus spreading all around these fancy hallways.  Everyone is miserable with a sickness to the stomach, and weeping rashes.  HEE HEE HEE.  From the chickens!

They always laughed at old Boggins, and his raw chicken leg breakfast, every day since I was a little rascal with new teeth in my mouth, eager to chomp on … things.  Ma always led me straight along, always looking out for Boggins.

“Boggins,” she’d say from her rocking’ chair, hands full of biscuits, or stirring up biscuit batter.  “You must always remember to have a slice of raw chicken wif yer morning biscuits.  It’ll keep the coughies away from yah.”

Ah, Ma!  You always did look out for me.

Now look at all these posh, dignified Agents, always laughing at old Boggins.  How sick they are!  Too much vomit for Boggins to clean up.  The Beastmaster, the smelliest man that ever lived, he’s away, and so I just turned the Verbhounds loose on the grounds.  No more cleaning up sick for Boggins!  Those mutts are good for something after all.

Me? I’ve got run of the place, all to myself.  HEE HEE HEE.

EXERCISE:

That’s it.  Get your exercise, people, so I don’t have to clean up after yah when you get too close to the chickens and you catch what they’ve got.  And eat your biscuits.

“Who’re you?” she slurred at me.  A creeping-vine of drool spilling from her puffy lips.   That’s the way with these Directorate do-gooders, always making messes wherever they go.

“I’m Boggins,” I says.  “Janitor Boggins.”

That was like the first time anyone in the gold-polished-shit club ever blessed me with a nod t’ward my existence.

“Biggidy Bogginy,” . . . → Read More: Training Exercise #13: Perspective]]>

Its becomes clear to me that Miss Ethelie is unfit today to post her effiminate scribblings on account of her being unconscious.  I was cleaning up Miss Ethelie’s vomit last night (all over her frilly lavendar-scented pillow cases) when she sat right up in bed and looked at me.

“Who’re you?” she slurred at me.  A creeping-vine of drool spilling from her puffy lips.   That’s the way with these Directorate do-gooders, always making messes wherever they go.

“I’m Boggins,” I says.  “Janitor Boggins.”

That was like the first time anyone in the gold-polished-shit club ever blessed me with a nod t’ward my existence.

“Biggidy Bogginy,” she slurs from her laudanum-blizzard, and falls back into unconsciousness.

Gustav charged me with posting an exercise, which is surprising he could spill any words out in between dry-heaving and talking about his grotesque cat, the fat little beast that spends all its time shedding fur through-out my clean hallways and leaving half eaten beetles on the expensive furniture.

All the other senior staff are away on Very Important Missions, as Miss Ethelie might lecture.  Maybe when their brains stop a-shakin in  their precious skulls they’ll regret leaving their foolish Directorate in the hands of a janitor that no one ever pays attention to.

Your Fancy Exercise:

Previous exercises have been a doily-choked back-patting-fest of fancy important people.  This time, I want you to write a scene with one of the real people, the truly important Little Guys that Keep Miss Ethelie’s vanity polished and her meals warm and her frills unfrumped and everything else.  Write a scene from the perspectve of someone that REALLY MATTERS.