I Was 21 Years When I Wrote This Blog

War of the Noses: Blowing Over?

We had a tall post to go with that picture but it was blocked by networking censors. (Ask the source, Lockhart Steele, about the dirt in D-Scho's nails, E-Spy's contrails, and how he once mocked us for wanting to be Team P-Fro's waterboy.) Oh how it would've curled toes, been clipped on the floor, and had anyone in the line of firing-retards reaching for a roll of toilet paper to aerate an eye or clean a cheek.

In a reversal of fortitude, the old YM is leaving the new GM behind. Assembly line production, while efficient, lacks heart. The work took no effort and the predictability of hitting our numbers (one and two) started to provide more feet-propping boredom than cigar-chomping comfort. Wheels always went in the same direction, knobs twisted without variation, buttons were too easily pushed and our water cooler population faced zero-growth fears with temperance preaching types like Jack London.

To this end (and happy beginnings), we're replacing the surgical precision of the bomb-infusing robots with hot err-filled humans almost capable of post-medicated emotion. What does that mean? New targets, of course. There are always more wars to manufacture, uncomfortable pressures to engineer and slumping pumps to retro-fight. Call us the Halliburton of the Milling-About-In-Vitriol Complex; we're still not afraid to shoot each other in the face.