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Umph… plurgh… splat!

Ingratiated on July 17, 2005.

This week, I vociferously renewed my Trooble quest by first visiting with my old neighbor on my old street down in the old fjords, Mr. Samuel Dreckers (alas, poor Mr. Wilson). I first inquired as to how his health was (it was fantastic), and whether or not he enjoyed the beauteous sight of Alyssa Milano’s pretty young feet as much as I did (he did—infallibly and indubitably, of course). I continued, inquiring about the Englebee Troobles. I was sure he would know about them, or at least where in Uzbekistan I could find a good podiatrist.

He answered me at once: “The Englebee Troobles don’t exist. They never have! Go away, young man, and do not bother people such as I, the trained assassin Mr. Dreckers—your Mr. Wilson be damned, by the way—with your silly obsessions!”

I responded, “Are you sure?”

He reiterated, salaciously: “As sure as my name is Mr. Samuel Dreckers, and as sure as I am a trained assassin, and as sure as you are surely an ass, yes!!”

I absconded, “Are you sure?” I was angry, and pessimistically ostentatious. Vertically, I should have queried, horizontally peeling, reeling, feeling for that glib answer. I sat and waited, baited, I was sure, with bated breath I did wait. And waited some more.

His response was didactic and conformatory: “Muahh.”

So I killed him and he died with an umph… plurgh… splat!

I killed him for my dear brother Grårp.

Tomorrow I shall press onward and upward (never backward, only forward!) in my search for the Englebee Troobles. I shall find them, or I shall surely die, having wound down into a perspicacious flea, a tiny micron-wide troglodyte, waiting forever for the screaming stars to end their spleen-ridden tirades and the garden gnomes to get off of my big toe.