We are on the move, O Mighty One! The Large Jawed Woman, or as I must now refer to her, Ms. Hanoi, has driven off from her domicile on the way to Kinko's for yet another of her efforts on their computers (her own has suffered much damage of late because of Cheetoh dust clogging up the keys). But, Your Loveliness! She has cleverly disguised herself so that she cannot be recognized as the Large Jawed Woman. Well, she can still be recognized for her large jaw, but now she looks like a Terran from the eastern hemisphere. This morning I observed her carefully taking strips of Scotch tape and pressing them to the sides of her eyelids to force them into an upward slant. Then she began dabbing ochre makeup across her face until she was the color of a slightly baked snack of the sort that she prefers. Finally, she removed the head of a mop, dipped it into black shoe polish, and when it dried, placed it over her own greying tresses. The final touch was to don a pair of black pajamas and put a pair of flip flops on, and breep-o, O Mighty Shovel! Where once stood the Large Jawed Woman, now stood the Large Jawed Asian Woman! Meanwhile, I followed her lead and disguised myself as well. I am now calling myself One Hung Low, and you would not recognize your faithful minion! I managed to find a small can of yellow paint in one of the sheds, and doused myself in it pretty thoroughly. The only drawback was that it turned out to be phosphorescent, so I now tend to glow in the dark. At the moment, as I make this report to the Mother Sh --- I mean, to headquarters --- I am in the trunk of the Mercedes. It's a little uncomfortable because the bottom of the space has rusted out (to say nothing of the small skeletons of cats and dogs that are rattling around in here with me), but thanks to the glow of my skin, I can see well enough to type. The only thing I could do with my hair, or really my lack of hair, was to grab one of the lampshades and stick it on top of my head. It looks like a sampan hat, or at least that will be my story if anyone questions me when I climb out of the trunk at Kinko's once we arrive. There was a bad moment as she backed out of the driveway. The towel she normally hangs over her license plate had dropped off, and when she got out to secure it more firmly, a man came up with a piece of paper in his hand and attempted to speak with her. "Miss H?" he asked. "No Miss H! Miss H no here!! Me Missy Hanoi, longtime same no see Miss H!!! No Miss H!!!" The Large Jawed Woman was alarmed, and tried to get back into her car. Unfortunately, when she slammed the door, it dropped off its rusted hingers and onto the poor Terran's right foot. "Shit!!" He began hopping up and down on one foot. "So solly! Miss Hanoi so solly!! Miss Hanoi go now, all same solly!!!!" I had to hold onto the walls of the trunk with all four limbs and my tail as she spun the car into reverse and roared off down the street, leaving behind a trail of empty McFlurrie cups and half-eaten fried pies. Your faithful minion, One Hung Low

O Grand and Glorious One, Sorry for the long silence on my end, Your Flatulence, but I have been deeply undercover now for months, and mercy me, O Harbinger of Hilarity, six of my nine eyes have been permanently damaged by the experience. Oh, the sights I have seen! I spent most of the winter disguised as a sofa cushion on the Large-Jawed Woman's covertible bed outside on the front porch of the Littlerock dwelling, and let me tell you, it was rough. Not only did I have to endure her rather enormous asspharti descending upon me at regular intervals, and the occasional Cheetoh rammed up my nose when she accidentally dropped them during a feeding frenzy, she also hid the bodies of small felines and canines behind the sofa in an effort to keep the forces of Animal Justice from uncovering them during their regular visits to her domicile. Actually, though, I think the Large-Jawed Woman was grateful for the attention. She would swipe cages that they brought to remove her animals and stuff them down her jeans. Later she would sell them, thereby purchasing the electrical current she needs to maintain her computational device and the never-ending war with her enemies. The numbers of which increaseth daily and droppeth like the dew from above. She has now succeeded in annoying the ASPCA in the neighboring five counties, all of her neighbors upon her former street, and some poor Terran who approached her outside of Kinko's to ask the time, and whom she drove before her screaming about how she was the victim of stalking. All he could say was "Geeze, lady, lady, please, lady, I just wanted to buy some paper clips!" but the Large-Jawed Woman would not be mollified. And now here we sit in a cave out in the desert. It's not bad, it reminds me of Denbar VIII and the happy times I spent there with Minion Tom Cruise under the Rings of Roombath. I am now disguised as a rock, but frankly, O Mighty Shovel, I could probably sit in front of her with Christmas lights around my neck and she wouldn't even notice. All she does is wear a tinfoil hat and throw darts at pictures of Terrans. They are labeled with names like "Mitzi" and "Huiko" and "Blake". She kind of laughs to herself a lot too. To tell you the truth, I'm a little afraid. Can I come in from the cold now? Your faithful Minion, Illuminati

O Mighty Carbuncle on the Hind Quarters of Zazu Pitts! Someone has been filing false reports to the Home Planet using my name! I hope you know, O Mighty and Grand Implement of Dirt Removal, that would never, ever refer to Your Flatulence as "cheap white Christmas trailer-park trash"! It wasn't me! Please save the transmission signature. When I called Theta home about this, I made the Assistant Secretary for Minions read them to me, and I can assure you, they did not originate with your faithful minion. No, sirree, Elak 5!

O Mighty Shovel!!!! It is I, your most unworthy minion. Your Rotundity, it may be time to switch to Emergency Plan Alpha Tango Foxtrot Samba Rhumba. The large-jawed woman has discovered the secret connection to Minion T--- Crui--e!!!! Perhaps it is time to beam him up to the Mothership for his own protection!!! Excellent work, Your Niftiness, with the placing of Minion Paul Ryan into the Romney campaign. The Mormons are so alien themselves that Minion Paul will never be detected as one, even though you would have to be Helen Keller to look at his face and not think "otherworldly". Our secret plan to take over this miserable mudball is in full swing! Returning to my observation post, which is actually in the back of Bruce's truck. I know, but you haven't exactly been sending me the quadloosI need to rent an actual apartment, Your Minginess, so I have to take advantage of the fact that Bruce is trying to take advantage of me. Oops, here he comes! More later! Your faithful minion, Illuminati

Occasionally a neighbor would come out of his house and scream "would you shut the act of sexual intercourse up???" Then several of the mercenaries would spray his lawn with bullets and jeer as he ran into the house.

I wondered why the Terran security forces didn't come. This morning I found out that their new policy is not to answer anymore calls from this street or, as the officer I spoke to from the payphone said, "we wouldn't have time to do a damn thing all day."

When the sun came up this morning the carnage was terrible. Poor dogs and cats lay all over the yard, cut down by the mercenaries during the night.

"Well," Bruce said as he gazed at the littered ground, "that should cut down on the barking, at least."

When Bruce and I emerged from our packing crate, I was walking a little bowlegged, but otherwise in good spirits. Our reunion had been, how shall I say it? Intense. But he was quickly distracted by the uniforms provided by the large-jawed woman for her defenders.

Remember the night we stayed in on the spaceship and watched the human service called Netflix, O Mighty and Grand Digging Instrument? That movie called 300?

I didn't mind it so much, but the tiny leather bikini looked a little ridiculous on someone of Bruce's frame. He wriggled into it while muttering obscenities. And when we met up with the other members of Oma's Home Guard they weren't that happy either. We stood in the dusty area in front of Base Camp Oma and tried to look as professional as a group of men and a three-foot alien can look while wearing very little covering their posteriors.

Strangely, the large-jawed woman looked satisfied as her eyes raked us up and down, then back up.

"I knew all those spare outfits were gonna come in handy some day! Pass out the shootin' irons."

Her assistant shuffled forward with a handful of old army pistols, BB guns and in my case, a water pistol.

"Sorry, dude," the assistant muttered as he handed it to, "we're outta the real shit."

"Not a problem," I said brightly. Then I aimed it at Bruce and began squirting him with it again and again until his entire torso was gleaming in the late November sun, with little drops of steam rising off his taut pecs and --- sorry. I digress.

Anyway, I drew treehouse duty. There were a couple of planks nailed across two branches in a place that allowed me to see anyone who might be approaching the perimeter fence. By this time, neighbors had begun to appear on their front lawns. I suppose it isn't every day that a house on their street is surrounded by burly men dressed in leather bikinis. Or maybe it is. I was visiting Minion Kyle in West Hollywood, and it happened there every day. Sorry. I digress.

Friday night wore on. Every ten minutes or so there would be a noise, and one of my fellow mercenaries would let loose a few quick rounds of ammunition, peppering the darkness. From my vantage point I could see into the house to where the large-jawed woman sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by what appeared to be dozen of Terran canines --- you know, the creatures you always say remind you of my cousin Erglin, O Blemish on the Celestial Chin of Theta. The assistant was sitting with her, and they were trying to talk while she typed on the computer. It didn't appear that she was getting anywhere fast, since after she had typed for a few minutes another human who looked like her would jerk the computer out of her hands and scamper to another part of the house to watch exciting film clips. Really exciting film clips. Then the large-jawed woman would stand up and roar "you bring that sumbitch back here, baby boy!" and he would scream back "Act of sexual intercourse you, momma!" and the assistant would knock his forehead on the table. It got so interesting that I forgot to watch for the approach of Mr. O'Connor's forces! Of course, even if they had come, the most I could do was get their kneecaps wet, given my height and the nature of my weapon.

O Mighty Shovel!

It has worked, Your Decreptitude! I have been accepted as a mercenary at Base Camp Oma, as we are now calling it, for Operation: Desert Minimal Chance of Rain. I managed to mingle with a group of Hispanic humans waiting around outside of the local Home Depot when a rusty truck drove up with the large-jawed woman driving. The cab was filled with howling cats, frantically scratching at the windows to be set free. She ignored them, and motioned at three of us to get into the back of the truck. As per your instructions, O Wearer of the Sacred Jockey Shorts of Theta, I had procured a droopy mustache and sombrero as a disguise. The other Hispanics had looked curiously at me (you could hardly tell they were Hispanics at all, since they were wearing jeans and Tommy Hilfiger shirts. I felt pretty smug in my serape, let me tell you!), but I couldn't tell if this was because of my native dress or the fact that I am only three feet high, and the sombrero kept sliding down my face to rest on my shoulders.

Anyway, we reached the compound in Littlerock, and joined a crowd of other soldiers-for-hire that were milling in the front yard. The large-jawed woman climbed up on top of a crate (there were a lot of crates in the yard for some reason, as well as heaps of dog freeplow all over the place --- a lot of the other mercenaries kept stepping in it, and the smell was terrible!)

"Listen up, you retards!" the large-jawed woman bellowed. I had been distracted by the sight of her purple leggings and lime green top, but my attention was immediately front-and-center.

"There is going to be a major operation against this compound within the next thirty-six hours. I have received satellite intelligence reports from my supporters at NORAD that Patrick O'Connor's army will be moving against us at 0800 Sunday."

She pointed to some large wooden crates leaning against the far wall of the house.

"Those will be your barracks. Inside you will find your uniforms and weapons. Stand down, dress, and be back here in five minutes."

The throng of mercenaries dispersed. I tried to keep well in the background, but before I could get very far I was recognized! A burly man approached me, lifted the sombrero from my head and smiled down at me.

"Little guy, is that you? It's me! Bruce!"

My hearts sank, O Keeper of the Cojones of the Lords of Meeprap! It was my old friend the truck driver!

"Sure have missed your purty mouth, l'il feller. Come on, let's get away from the crazy bitch for a few seconds, 'cause you and I are gonna be bunkmates!