RatBlurt Disclaimer: Rubberlina insists on telling her own story. She believes she is Odysseus reincarnated and has many travels and adventures ahead of her and that everyone everywhere is just dying to hear about them. She also considers me a poor substitute for Homer. Who can blame her? Still, I feel the need to offer this disclaimer. I, RatBlurt, deny all responsibility for the following content and am giving this space up to and am acting as “transcription-elf” for Rubberlina under duress. What’s that? Oh, she says it’s “Lina” for short. Anyway, putting aside the fact that she’s started calling me “R-Blurby,” she has threatened to be there on my pillow staring me in the face every time I wake up if I don’t give in to her demands. Given this terrifying prospect, the only thing I could say was, as you might understand, “as you wish.”
Has he shut up yet? Sweet pigs in doodoo. Whine, whine, whine. Annoying, annoying, annoying. Still, what can a rubberballhead™ like me do? You can see my hands. Not exactly QWERTY appropriate, are they? And I can’t dictate because I always have this stupid grin on my face, my lips don’t move, and I don’t have lungs or larynx to speak of. (Ha! I kill myself!) I do have ESP, though, thank Bamar. If you’re not familiar, Bamar is my creator, at least the lower half of me. Humans know him, well, it, as an injection molding company. I’m still not sure where my head and arms came from. They’re rubber, not plastic, so I must have a co-creator out there waiting to be found. Hence, my quest.
Just hold on a minute, okay. Don’t be all “what quest I don’t know about any stinking quest.” I’m getting to it. Let me start by saying I got bored with standing around on a desk all day staring at the stupid lit-up goose lamp that some taste-free idiot has put in the same space with me. I also got tired of being an occasional plaything for two enormous be-furred and be-whiskered creatures with ferocious fangs and terrible talons and a decided lack of tolerance for what they consider (fools!) an inanimate object with an overly garish color scheme. So, I decided my head and the rest of me need to be in a different place. We need to have a mission, a special purpose in life. Thus, I said to myself, self, go forth and search for your other “parent.” And I did.
Why the co-creator quest, or CCQ, you ask? When I find him or her or it, maybe I’ll learn out more about who I am. Or maybe I’ll at least get my head on straight, something you can see I’m in desperate need of. I’m looking for some seriously serious answers, in short. That’s why my first CCQ stop was Catch the Mania trivia night. I knew the chance of “who made Lina’s rubber head?” coming up as a question was slim but it wasn’t nonexistent and I had to begin someplace. I even tried and failed to project my question into the head of the guy running the game so he would substitute it for inane ones like who is the famous “daddy” of that blond guy in Hawaii Five-O. (James Caan is the answer, in case you’re wondering, as if I know who the hell that is or care.)
Oh, well. Looking on the bright side, if I had discovered my co-creator there, my quest would have ended and I might have spent the rest of my days handing out napkins, well, pointing out their location, to various and sundry ill-mannered and sloppy bar patrons. I’m glad to be spared that fate. And on top of that, the burger wasn’t bad and the Iguana Baits did quite well in dulling the sharp edge of my deep and distressful disappointment. Just one word of advice should you end up here. If someone offers you a Firenado shot, just say no.