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Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg

Encapsulated within July 25, 1999.

Unlike animals, people need a purpose in life. Yes, I encapsulated this for this week. Find out how it’s all going to end—tonight! Time for the bonus round! I shoved my triangular briefcase down the screaming stars’ throat. They didn’t like it, and screamed louder! A red-spotted dog agreed with them and started screaming, equally as annoying. I had to do something to stop them.

My good friend, Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg, from southern Moravia, came to help me stop the stars on Friday. But, alas, he could do nothing to prevent them from screaming. (It was a limited-time offer.) Then, something strange happened—Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg, from southern Moravia, told me that the whole thing was a figment of my imagination. How dare he! How could I possibly imagine something as annoying as seventy-three screaming stars; not to mention the now-dead singing spiders!!

Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg, from southern Moravia, is dead. I told him to leave my house. As he did, he was trampled by sixteen rabid underdogs, and died.