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Why do the stars scream?

Screamed about on September 16, 2007.

On Tuesday, while sleeping soundly and dreaming of Alyssa Milano, I was once again awakened by the urgent screaming of the stars overhead. As this hasn’t happened for several months, I was quite perturbed and disturbed! Having seen Mr. Wilson’s face floating up there in the sky alongside the shrieking stars, I quickly picked up the phone and called him to make sure he hadn’t been kidnapped by UFOs or otherwise blasted into space. He promptly informed me that he hadn’t, thanked me for my concern, and reminded me that the last time I had one of these “screaming star episodes,” my car had been stolen. I went to check, and it hadn’t been—although someone had covered it in bologna and cheese, no doubt preparing to make a mosaic out of them!—so I thanked him for his concern, threatened him for accusing me of having an “episode” of any sort, then slammed the phone down in anger.

Curiously sensing that I had written about this same chain of events several years ago, I began to spin around and chant Déjà vu! Déjà vu! Déjà vu! over and over until I made myself dizzy and vomited forth a stream of tiny, tiny gnomes. Screaming in panic louder than any celestial body had ever screamed before, I ran out of my house (remembering not to bother trying to burn it down this time), grabbed the AK-47 off of my roof, and began firing it in the air with hapless abandon.

The screaming stars only began to scream louder!

Finally realizing I had no choice, I dug a hole seven feet deep in my front lawn and crawled in.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited, continuing to insert gratuitous paragraph breaks as I did so.

And finally…

…it stopped.

It having stopped, I slowly crawled out of my pwee-pwee hole and refrained from inserting any more superfluous <p> tags. I slithered blithely back into my house, and began assessing any damage the star-screaming had caused. I checked on the gorillas first, and found that they were fine, if a bit shaken. The gnome holes were all plugged, and the gnome pile accreting in my bedroom door was only about seven feet high. All in all, all was well. All is well. All will always be well.

I slinked back down to my pantry where my “telephone” is located, and called Mr. Wilson again to inform him of the good news—and to thank him for doing absolutely nothing.

“Thanks for nothing, you old turd-bore!” I shouted at him in place of a greeting.

“Well, you’re certainly not welcome, then, you cackle-footed monkey-rectum!” he answered, his voice shrill and indignant.

I slammed down the phone, and—

—after inserting one more spurious paragraph break—called up my old pal Samuel Dreckers to also thank him for nothing and remind him that he, quite frankly, sucked at being a trained assassin. He was upset and threatened to garrote me in my sleep when I least expected it. I chuckled, chortled, and sniggered lightly, and then hung up on him.

Having prayed to the Lord and his little boy Jesus that Wilson and Dreckers burn in northern California for all eternity, I then picked up the phone and jammed it up my nose. After pulling it out, I jammed it up my nose again, and then a third time. Afterward, I left a message on Rory Calhoun’s answering machine that consisted of nothing more than silence interrupted by heavy breathing.

Next I called Loquisha and called her a “dingleberried hamster whore” before hanging up and calling you, dear reader, an “idiot” for bothering to read any of this.

Lastly, before plodding off to bed once again, I rang up Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir and asked her if she were “lonely” and wanted to “see” my pack of gorillas again. She accused me of using as many spurious quotation marks as I have paragraph tags, so I

went back to inserting even more of these bad boys, this time without any semblance of punctuation. She hung up. I hung up. Everyone hung up. And I plodded off to bed once again.

The stars hung up in the sky… and then began screaming once again.