How ’bout that? Isn’t gravity supposed to pull instead of push? Damnedest thing. I’m floating, floating… floating… falling… FALLING!… fall… floating again… Make up your bleeding mind!
Oh, hello. And welcome back to the land of blog. Big Green blog, that is, a.k.a. Notes from Sri Lanka. This is where you come to get the latest on what the hell we’ve been doing all week… expecting what, I don’t know. You’ll have to excuse my earlier outburst — I was finally drifting off to sleep after hours of fruitless effort. Now that I’m back on Terra Firma, I can bring you up to speed as you wait breathlessly for every new detail of our pointless exploits. (Don’t worry about writing this down; the entire sequence will be chronicled in comic strip form on new boxes of Sugar Pops cereal. Look for the special Big Green display card. See your grocer for details.)
Now, now… where was I? Ah, yes. The eviction notice. The Cheney Hammer Mill has been condemned, you see. No two ways about it, our local chamber of commerce has it in for us, big time. As they are busily converting this entire island into luxury vacation flats, the “powers that be” have decided to take this opportunity to clear the decks of all squatters. Thanks to my somewhat ill-advised references to the hammer mill in this blog, our local council has long been aware of our illicit presence within its bowels (the mill’s, that is, not the council’s) and is now taking steps to see us put out on the street where they feel we belong. That means the three members of Big Green — myself, my illustrious brother Matt, and our long-time co-conspirator (and drummer) John White — plus Marvin (my 
personal robot assistant), his inventor Mitch Macaphee, our mutual friend Trevor James Constable, the man-sized tuber, the two Lincolns (matter and anti-matter), and Big Zamboola will be residents of various gutters and fields in a fortnight or so… unless we take drastic steps.
What steps, you ask? Don’t ask… tell! We’re clueless over here.
Our financial advisor, Geet O’Reilly, took a moment away from doing our taxes to suggest that we try some kind of legal intervention. “Why don’t you phone a solicitor?” she asked, and Mitch Macaphee started breaking out in blue spots. (He’s got this thing about lawyers, see.) Once we had his temperature stabilized, Matt asked Mitch to write a letter to the local Chamber of Commerce pretending to be a lawyer… he could, perhaps, invent some bogus letterhead — Macaphee, Macaphee, and Pendergast, LLC. Mitch’s spots turned green. This obviously wasn’t going to work. It was clear that we would have to take a more direct approach. No go-betweens, damn it! It was time to petition the powerful, to take our demands out into the street, to show them we weren’t going to just lie down and take it… that we were going to FIGHT! We’re going to choke that Chamber of 
Commerce building with protesters. Time to get down to it, friends – are you WITH ME?
Actually, Marvin is pretty good at holding a sign. The trouble was with the man-sized tuber — he doesn’t really have hands, per se. You kind of have to stick the post of the sign in his husk, then tilt it back so it doesn’t fall on Big Zamboola from behind. Big Zamboola — there’s another problem. No hands, no husk… pretty much all mouth. We didn’t even bother with the sign in his case; we just told him what to holler. In any case, it was a pretty pathetic looking protest, particularly with all the spectacular marches that have been going on lately in the States and in France. From the windows of the mill, it looked like what it was — a straggly gathering of freaks on the steps of the Chamber building.
Did I go? Hell, no. Neither did Matt or John. We’re back here on a rear-guard maneuver, making sure the demolition crew doesn’t sneak in during our absence. Clever, eh? Pass the nachos, Johnny… there’s a good chap!
