First Floor Friday: It's made out of what?!
Here we are, kids, the final day of rocket ship exploration, although in this case the final frontier is the first floor, and not space. Yeah, me and Kirk, we're tight like that.
Button punching commenced around 10:30 this morning. The elevator carried me down to the first floor, which is usually criss-crossed with big sheets of fiber board so that the moving guys can roll stuff over the marble in the lobby. (I told you there are always moving guys!) Apparently, they were working on the turbines or doing waste disposal or perhaps capturing specimens for their crates, though, because none of them were about when I left the elevator.
I headed to the left where the only available corridor was positioned. The bathroom was located in what I've come to realize is a fairly standard position for at least several of the floors, if not my own. (Why the hell is the bathroom on the fourth floor in a different location?)
It seemed pretty normal, but you know how that goes by now, right? The colors of paint and tile were a little different, though. Seems like every single one of them is decorated differently, although I can't figure out why they would have gone to the extra expense of choosing a different, yet still-boring color combination for each floor.
The locks on the stall doors are different than they are on other floors, though. They have a lever instead of a round knob. Huh. Then I noticed that the stalls were arranged a little differently. Two of them are offset from each other by a few inches, one reaching farther forward into the room than its companions. Weird, and seemingly unncecessary.
The sink looked normal. Wait, that was just the counter top. It was the same color as the one on the third floor, but the faucet was like the ones on the fourth floor, and the soap dispensers are like the ones on the second floor. And the paper towel dispensers are compteley different from the ones on every other floor in the building! What. The. Hell???
I was looking at all this mismatched stuff, and then a cold, dreadful realization came over me. See, my friend six_demon_bag is of the opinion that perhaps this could be a ship, but that I'm not looking at all the angles properly. He surmised that it could, in fact, be a sort of ark for ferrying a small collection of fortunate beings to another planet whence our humble little greena and blue marble splits apart in the wake of environmental catastrophe or nuclear war or plague or whatever the hell we do ourselves in with.
That's not a bad idea. I mean, I don't really want to leave, but it's nice to think that some there are some interstellar overseers out there who kind of feel bad for us and think we should be allowed a second chance to screw up another planet. However, the possible relative disposition of our captors/saviors doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of things when it has become apparent to me, after carefully perusing the first floor bathroom, that this ship is build out of spare parts!
What the hell, dudes?! We're not going anywhere! I don't care if they intend to let us repopulate some sunny orb with that has rivers made of diet Mountain Dew and trees that bend down of their own accord and offer up freshly-grown Little Debbie snack cakes! Why? Because this tank is gonna get about nineteen thousand feet off the ground at which point some key component of the hyperdrive is going to get leaned on a little too hard by the warp turbine, and then the duct tape and paper clips that are holding it in place are going to come loose, causing a chain reaction that's going to take us from comfy and flying to crispy and falling in the space of 3.11 seconds!!!
We're hosed, man. I hate to tell it to you, but whether they want us as food or friends, none of us in this building are making it out alive. Watch for it on the news, kids.
Button punching commenced around 10:30 this morning. The elevator carried me down to the first floor, which is usually criss-crossed with big sheets of fiber board so that the moving guys can roll stuff over the marble in the lobby. (I told you there are always moving guys!) Apparently, they were working on the turbines or doing waste disposal or perhaps capturing specimens for their crates, though, because none of them were about when I left the elevator.
I headed to the left where the only available corridor was positioned. The bathroom was located in what I've come to realize is a fairly standard position for at least several of the floors, if not my own. (Why the hell is the bathroom on the fourth floor in a different location?)
It seemed pretty normal, but you know how that goes by now, right? The colors of paint and tile were a little different, though. Seems like every single one of them is decorated differently, although I can't figure out why they would have gone to the extra expense of choosing a different, yet still-boring color combination for each floor.
The locks on the stall doors are different than they are on other floors, though. They have a lever instead of a round knob. Huh. Then I noticed that the stalls were arranged a little differently. Two of them are offset from each other by a few inches, one reaching farther forward into the room than its companions. Weird, and seemingly unncecessary.
The sink looked normal. Wait, that was just the counter top. It was the same color as the one on the third floor, but the faucet was like the ones on the fourth floor, and the soap dispensers are like the ones on the second floor. And the paper towel dispensers are compteley different from the ones on every other floor in the building! What. The. Hell???
I was looking at all this mismatched stuff, and then a cold, dreadful realization came over me. See, my friend six_demon_bag is of the opinion that perhaps this could be a ship, but that I'm not looking at all the angles properly. He surmised that it could, in fact, be a sort of ark for ferrying a small collection of fortunate beings to another planet whence our humble little greena and blue marble splits apart in the wake of environmental catastrophe or nuclear war or plague or whatever the hell we do ourselves in with.
That's not a bad idea. I mean, I don't really want to leave, but it's nice to think that some there are some interstellar overseers out there who kind of feel bad for us and think we should be allowed a second chance to screw up another planet. However, the possible relative disposition of our captors/saviors doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of things when it has become apparent to me, after carefully perusing the first floor bathroom, that this ship is build out of spare parts!
What the hell, dudes?! We're not going anywhere! I don't care if they intend to let us repopulate some sunny orb with that has rivers made of diet Mountain Dew and trees that bend down of their own accord and offer up freshly-grown Little Debbie snack cakes! Why? Because this tank is gonna get about nineteen thousand feet off the ground at which point some key component of the hyperdrive is going to get leaned on a little too hard by the warp turbine, and then the duct tape and paper clips that are holding it in place are going to come loose, causing a chain reaction that's going to take us from comfy and flying to crispy and falling in the space of 3.11 seconds!!!
We're hosed, man. I hate to tell it to you, but whether they want us as food or friends, none of us in this building are making it out alive. Watch for it on the news, kids.