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Naked with soda bottles in my ears

Redistributed after May 8, 2005.

I pressed the button and went vroom! a lot. The police were lying about the testicles and perpendicular telephony; I’m almost sure of it. Grårp did not die of a lampshade to the head, nor an MS-DOS internal wheel misconfiguration conflagration! “It’s our future, damn it! Don’t leave it blank!!” I reminded myself over and over. But it didn’t help. It only made the Carpathian Stinking Hound even madder (woof!)—madder than an Epson printer in heat. The Papacy answered, and the girl-next-refrigerator placed a plastic cup under the doorway to the spamblocking emailer clientele, for now.

Hoo-wah. I saw a quarter lying in the street, and thought that the planter man had put it there. I heard the howling, the roaring, the unintelligible multiplexing of the yellow and orange spotted cap, capitulating to the random discourse of etymology and asteriskography (that’s also known as autonomic typographical teleology). I found nothing, torn asunder under the weight of fifty-seven thousand human and alien champions of deprecation! I thought about this incident until Saturday, whereupon I went mooing and baying at the moon, completely naked and wearing soda bottles in my ears.