p'nuttles

Slothy is so melancholy because there is NO interwebs access at the shack, and as already determined a true-enough addict, she's-like-heroin-to-me, the blogosphere calls a siren-song ever beckoning to the pointy rocks. Master technician Mr. P'Nuttles was even called in to establish some kind of shackwire, but the chokeweed and virginia creeper have snuffed all but the most crackly and fragile thread of a phone connexion with the outside world. This sorry situation results in distracted and sporadic moves in the shack, with bouts of wild hand-wringing and fetal-position napping.

(I wasn't going to tell you this, but when P'Nuttles confessed failure, I tried to murder him. He isn't quite dead, but in need of some serious tech support: flashing wrenches in his eyes.)