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Music erupted from my bed cushions

Cosigned on April 24, 2005.

The music erupted from my bed cushions, pots, and pans today. It sounded like the melody from “Red Blaze of Hellfire” by Lycanthropy. I don’t know why it happened, but it did.

I thought maybe the receipt from the ATM machine, or the letter Æ painted on my window would tell me. I asked them, I implored them, I even sacrificed a goat to them; but they could not. So I tried puffing on a blowfish’s tail for 2.768 491 092 048 hours, but that did’t work either. I smell a Carpathian Yapping Hound whining at my door, and scratching the enamel off of the booby-trapped doorknob. But Saint James told me to shut up, or he’d smack me (poor Mr. Wilson!). The textfield is blinking at me from the bowels of the two-button mouse universe, pressing against the files and folders of my life. Where’s my so-called “CPU”? I think it is missing. I found some paper, but it is not a CPU. It looks more like the stuff that I used to stuff my nostrils and anus with when I have a Carpathian multiglandulatory problem.

Oh, that’s right. Right, right… so correct it smells like Pine-Sol.

Upon finding a copy of the newspaper Allegheny Tribune–Ledger, I read the story about the panhandler who spontaneously exploded when a smaller bill had entrapped him on Broad Street in Knoxville, Tennessee. He didn’t smell like Pine-Sol after that. More like Microsoft™. Bill Gates is a doofus, and the Spice Girls actually have nicer feet than Alyssa Milano (and more of them!)—although her feet are still cute and delicate. Something went “Adoogity!” at me right now from beyond a keyhole in my winchell. Wow.

Come and get me, orange spheres of mouse dung!