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Music erupted from my bed cushions again

Strafed on January 7, 2007.

Music erupted from my bed cushions again today, as I once again bagged a dog (by the tail!) and passed a burrito (out of the hole below my spine!). My Carpathian Yapping Hound (Yappie—he’s such a good dog!) bit the neighbor’s Carpathian Stinking Hound (Smelley—man, does he ever smell!) on the tail. Yappie’s such a good dog, and Smelley does smell so very much.

Unfortunately, the neighbor (hey, it’s Fyodor Vyacheslavovich Tvalashvili! I didn’t know he came back from Georgia! He doesn’t look too happy…) was really ticked off, and started beating Yappie with a toothbrush glued to a garnering-pole (stop that!). I had to put a stop to that at once, so I took out my trusty AK-47, lubed her up real good, and shot Fyodor Vyacheslavovich’s flower pots full of holes.

“No one beats Yappie and gets to play with it!” I howled at Fyodor Vyacheslavovich infuriationally, playing with mine (fap! fap! fapfapfap!) furiously and getting ready to beat Yappie into seven pieces myself if my idiot Georgian (he really is an idiot) neighbor didn’t stop. (No, wait, that’s not right… why would I beat Yappie myself? I’m confused now… damn you, Fyodor Vyacheslavovich!) But my neighbor was again nonplussed by my flowerpottery, and again he tried to draw a plus sign on my nose, after trying to have me trampled by a whole trampoline full of goats (real Belorussian Trampling Goats). I rebuffed him, stripping down until I was in the buff, then I punched him between the eye sockets with my left foot (pow! biff! zork! Alyssa!).

His eye turrets spun in both directions. He emitted a noise much like a wineglass being thrown very, very hard against cheap aluminum siding bought by a dupe after seeing it featured on an infomercial at three o’clock in the morning. Much like Mr. Wilson, Fyodor Vyacheslavovich couldn’t stand a good foot-punching, so he collapsed, quivering, into a rather compact pile of bowdlerized (and bamboozled! …Where are all these parentheticals coming from, anyway?) goop, which quickly flowed into a small Q-shaped puddle, which was quickly lapped up by Yappie (he’s such a goat!). The next day, it was deposited on the sidewalk—in the compact form of a doggie turd (a smelly one!).

Poor Fyodor Vyacheslavovich (poor flower pots, full of holes now!). All he wanted to do was beat Yappie with his garnering-pole.