To the people in the lunchroom: you know who you are, I know where you work.

First of all, for some vaguely depressing news that I sort of anticipated:

The book signing has been canceled because my books are self published and the company can't return them.

Like I said, I sort of suspected this might happen, but I REALLY wanted to believe that the little guy (or the XX-sized independently published woman) had a chance for a smidgen of success--alas, not to be. That's okay though--the lady at the bookstore (have I mentioned she was very nice with a tremendous smile?) is going to be selling my books by word of mouth--and they restocked my books at the store, so I did get something out of it. (I'm trying not to kick something and be snotty--and to be honest, my foot still hurts and the thought that I don't have stand up, even though my foot will have recovered by then, does sort of make me happy. But it would have been worth it. Trust me.)

Anyway, I'll live. I may even live through the foot thing. I like my doctor (now that I remember her) but she does have a way of minimizing the painful or life altering. (Not that this is life-altering.) Anyway, it was (as you all surmised) plantars fascaeitus (I have no idea how to spell it, but no combination of letters I set down is getting approval, so screw it), and I'm going to take another day off, keep my foot up, and honestly diet instead of hoping for the best. The worst thing is that I was told NOT to walk barefoot--not even in the house, and I think I may make Mate stop at the store for a pair of Crocs to wear around the house. They're not flip-flops and they're not tennishoes, socks, and the full sweaty-footed kit, either. Anyway, it hurts. I'm taking another day off and keeping my foot up, and maybe Fungus, god of podiatry will forgive me and let me walk like a human being.

And now, on to the title of the post.

I've been getting some a ration of (good natured, I can only hope) shit for my blogging in the lunch room--some rather disparaging remarks have been made about nicknaming the spawn of Lane for the purpose of my own amusement, and I thought that I might take this opportunity to remind the person who sends my blog posts around to the rest of the staff (we both know who you are!) that I don't just run a Morass of Weirdness, I'm also training an elite squad of anklebiters guaranteed to take you out, should your gentle, deprecating humor become just plain obnoxious.


First of all, let me introduce you to the Cave Troll.



Don't be fooled by the backwards Fireman's hat and the fact that he still insists on wearing a diaper when he wants to take a poop--he is not just bright, he is also cunning, wily, and has no qualms about inflicting copious physical harm on anyone who pisses him off. And if he likes you, he'll hang on your earlobes and kick you in the pork-sword as a sign of affection. Either way, he's not someone you want me to bring to work to introduce--he loves his mama. He'll attack on command. Hell--he'll attack on whim!

Next, we have our Secret Weapon. The Ladybug.



Oh yeah--she's cute--just look at those little panda glasses--aren't they cute? Aren't they adorable? ARen't they parrrrraaaalyzzzinggglyyyy sweet? Oh yeah--you've guessed it, that cuteness is terminal. Just when you think your heart is going to stop with the power of that charisma, she'll bite your ankle until you bleed to death.
And she loves her mama. Her cuteness radiates at all times, but she'll ankle-bite on command.


And here we have the eldest. Big T. T, you know, for TERMINATOR.



T has a deceptively sweet appearance--doesn't that kitty look comfortable, as though he's been there, I don't know, FOR AN ENTIRE SATURDAY, FROM EIGHT a.m. TO FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON? But there's more to T than his lazy exterior. Big T has two major weapons in his arsenal. The first is the random question when your attention is elsewhere--he can cause a brain bleed in two seconds flat by asking you some dumbass thing while your attention is on something entirely different. If he does it often enough, you'll be reduced to hurling books at his head while your face dissolves into a network of facial ticks vaguely reminiscent of the London Underground.
He's also a 6'3" blackbelt in karate. He can squash your nuts into oblivion before you realized that his metal smile cost more than three of my first cars.

And finally, the most deadly member of our team: Chicken.



Are we looking at this picture of Chicken closely, gentlemen? Are we looking at it REALLLLLY closely? Can we look beyond the casually dressed self-portrait of teen-angst into the glittering black depths of those fantastic, soulful eyes? Can we look into the heart of the awkward, bitter teenager and find the complete loathing for all members of the male gender who have ever dared to look at a pretty girl like her and found them wanting in some way? Can we see her complete desire to rip your flesh off, boil you in acid, and spread your remains with fermented turkey-shit over the salt-desert of Mars? Are you looking gentlemen? Are you? I don't know--if your testicles haven't dessicated into dust yet, then you aren't looking close enough.


So that's it--that's Spawn of Lane. I love them dearly and they'll protect me with sharp and pointy teeth. Be nice to me in the lunchroom, people. Remember, I've got a cracker-jack team of mama-defenders, at my beck and call.