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Into the midst of a gorilla and yak pack

Made in Taiwan, R.O.C., before May 15, 2005.

They shoved me into a truck on Tuesday, and did not let me out until seven (seven!) minutes later. The knaves. I never found out why, nor did I learn why the truck had been painted red, and had no headlights but a spare tire. I poured water over my head and ran away. They never found me.

I wrote some code, LISP and FORTRAN, for about seven hours, until that yapping spider—the only one of the singing spiders who remained alive—started yapping again; I had to get my skillet and purée it. The murder took place at 7:37, on schedule. The Internet and AOL merged into one splendid pile of gooey pink stuff. Then, I heard the crab feces calling to me, and pressed another button, letting the now-puréed once-singing spider fall into the midst of a gorilla and yak pack.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. It was like a thousand coups d’état combined with a naïve alabaster botonée cross. He shattered the glass that went into my eye (ay!). If it weren’t for my preoccupation with the Spice Girls’ toes, I would’ve surely apostrophed more words in this sentence.