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Troobles, long and hard

Deluged on August 7, 2005.

I dreamed of Englebee Troobles, long and hard, fast and strong, lithe and sleek. I slept, while the garden gnomes danced and pranced, and wheedled and needled and sang their little sing-song song about stealing my manhood and making a scrumptious genital pie out of it (no relation to the flying pi, as far as I know). Gregariously, I slept, dreaming of the dreams of glorious Englebee Troobles, as I had imagined them to be, as I had known them to be, as I had been shown them to be: Flying through the air with the greatest of ease, screaming and steaming, and hovering and towering and cowering and showering the world in their Troobly goodness. Sagaciously, I had been wrong.

I dreamed of (or did I scream for? or pine for—or whine for?) Alyssa Milano, and all the Spice Girls, and a young beauty named Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, and the lovely and supple feet they all had. Their toes, their feet, their arches and heels, their ankles, my dreams, my wonderful dreams of glorious Englebee Troobles and pretty young feet! I had nothing now! I had lost it all when I found a pile of squirrel dung, lightly steaming, lightly steamed, in the house of Richard Dreckers, Sr., and his damned grandson. Now I shall go get an inflatable hotdog and suck on it until I die of encapsulation.

Fickle ash-barger of it all, posh and piffle!