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Someone accused me of screwing a pheasant

Remixed before September 12, 1999.

The floating pi came by yesterday, riding in a polymorphous winged chariot, which I found to be quite inspiring. If floating mathematical irrationalities can own winged chariots, could I not at least find a new penis or tongue? First, I had to get out of the Afghanistani prison, of course.

That was not very difficult. I simply stole the floating pi’s winged chariot and rode past the guard as he was asleep, dreaming of stationary, non-floating pis. The pi was not happy, in fact, he was a pissed pi, and started clattering around in the cell in which I left him, which awoke the guard. The guard, after seeing the floating number… what? What, what? The television interrupted me. Someone accused me of screwing a pheasant. Mr. Wilson would have known.

I had escaped. The pi was in prison. If only I could somehow imprison the screaming stars. As I journeyed from Afghanistan to Prague, which I had heard was the happiest place on Earth, home to even the stupidest dolts (and singing arachnids), they kept me company, screaming their lungs out from far above in the night sky.

Lord, help me.