Don’t Fear the Reaper

by pjmcbride

Allen Lanier, member of The Blue Öyster Cult. ...

Allen Lanier, member of The Blue Öyster Cult. Allen in the middle, Eric Bloom on the left, and Buck Dharma on the right. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let me start by saying that, after Mass this evening, Fr. Nunning and I were discussing technology, and he asked if I’m on Facebook. I answered affirmatively, and then blurted out, “And I have a blog!” So, um, hi, Father. This is a side of me you don’t often get to see. But actually, most people don’t often get to see it, because I talk very little.


You may all be wondering why I called you all together here again. So sit down, shut up, ignore the lamentable lack of security, and listen.

There is now another (another!) supervisor vacancy at Dispatch. We will soon be entirely unsupervised at this rate, and what will happen then? Will we all stop showing up, or start cussing at callers? WELL? This is getting to be like the O.J. Simpson trial, where I told Rom I’d end up on the jury, because I was the only U.S. citizen who’d assiduously avoided following the case. What I’m getting at is, I’ll end up being a supervisor, because no one else will want it, and they’ll say, “You have the most experience–Tag, you’re it!”

My campaign slogan:


–What do we want? BAN BABY CORN!

–When do we want it? REAL SOON!

(Note: “When do we want it? Real soon!” was stolen from Buckaroo Banzai, a movie no one remembers but me.)

I am accepting campaign contributions, in money or soft drinks. Wait a minute, Foxy’s tugging at my sleeve–

….Do I realize this is not an election? Well, of course! As if I could win an election. I am rousing the rabble to bring about a coup! Again. It’s our only chance of  getting the air conditioning fixed.


On a more somber note (as indicated by the above line of asterisks), I was saddened to learn yesterday of the death of Allen Lanier, keyboard player for Blue Oyster Cult. Don’t fear the Reaper, as they say, and may light perpetual shine upon you.

I saw the Reaper today. He was riding a black Harley on W. Franklin St. He was wearing a black German-soldier-style helmet, and had his face painted like a skeleton. He nodded somberly at me as our eyes met, as if to say, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, but I won’t be stopping by just yet.” I nodded back. Later, man.