Hello Bitches

Remember me?

That's right, Grendku Industries Service Rep Drone #12.

Management has tasked me with taking the pulse of the readership of this little bleah-g. I mean blog. My attempt to inform them that endeavouring to find a pulse of a horse that was bludgeoned to death years ago seems like a fruitless venture was met with a tongue lashing that could have killed a man at ten paces. Fortunately for me, I'm not a man, I'm made of wood. And I'm ignoring the infantile jokes regarding that last statement that are racing through your mind right now. And yes, I can read your tiny-lusty-racing-on-a-one-track mind. And you should be ashamed of yourself. Particularly about that thing you do with the vegetables and water-based lubricants.

Now. Back to the task at hand. Before I was so rudely interrupted by your exceptionally perverse and foolish train of thought I was explaining that I was to take a pulse. A whiff of the air that is this Lair. But I haven't the nostrils for it. Really. Look. I don't even really have a face. And no, I'm not bitter about it. I've seen some of your faces. I consider it a blessing. As we have determined I am unable to sniff, I need your meager and most likely less-than-eager assistance in finding the interest in resurrecting the Grendku Thursdays.

If this goes well, I have heard the rumblings that upper management may be able to afford acquiring the services of that snobbish Sir fellow and his servant Smiggins if any of you require his counsel.

I make absolutely no promises other than to promise unto you the most contemptable, lackluster and rude service I am able to muster.

Yours in abject apathy,
Grendku Industries Service Rep Drone #12