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Curse inflatable hotdogs

Expurgated on January 23, 2005.

Curse the man who invented inflatable hotdogs!! How do we get to the truth? I am in the stars, among the stars, the screaming stars, pondering the fate of the accursed man who invented inflatable hotdogs. I shall not return to the Earth until I find the Englebee Troobles, or at the very least, learn they do not exist among the stars, the screaming stars…

Curse the entities known as Englebee Troobles! Curse all the Troobles! They are not worth finding! I have spent the past few days searching inside, among, behind, under, beneath, and to each and every side of every star out here. The stars do not seem to like my ham sandwiches or bell-shaped briefcase. Is there a sixty-seventh degree of pi floating among these stars, these screaming stars? I hope so. I think not. MP3s are nice. I cannot find it. I cannot find anything. Curse them all, the MP3 players, the people, the stars, the elliptical hyperspheroids, the Suicide Hotline, everything and everything around me. Curse the icon blinking in the task bar of the Universe!

The Troobles do exist. I know it. I smell them, I see them, they are so close, close as a boombox with an alphanumeric free-form keypad attached to the amplifier. I have a new investigatory line to pop into here, but I cannot remember nor do I suffice to know, exponentially, where to put it.

The Troobles exist. The Troobles exist…