Dammit, I forget what number this has to be. Oh well.

THE PLAYERS:
Whore
The Gloriousness That Is Me
My Left-Hand Man, Fuller
Nikolai The Socialist
 

It was dark. Extremely dark. So incredibly dark that
black looked light in comparison. So I waited for the dark to
totally encompass existence. It was a long wait, and I was
lonely. To pass the time, I began to play... well, I played
a wicked game using sticky right-
hand rules. The thought of young fertile
palm trees basking in the sun just made me hot. And the sun just made me hotter. I
was so hot that I actually began to melt. My liquid-ish skin was becoming slightly
liquid-y. More so than naturally liquid-ish skin, ahy-
how. I then became curious as to my actual volume
because nobody could hear me, or so they said. As usual,
I didn't believe them -- everyone always lied to me, you see,
they're greasy pinko-communist bastards. The only
ones that I could believe were the Irish Leprechauns
of Tir Na Nog. At least, that's what I was told by my god friends Tito and Ossie (who
rode the wild horses of which U2 sang (They also drowned in the Blue Sea, but that's another
monologue unto itself.) The horses were also blue.
Bluer, actually, than you will be if you overuse words
such as my incidental overuse of the word "incidental" and
its derivatives. Also, class, derive this by the definition.
And substitute any and all values for x. But
be wary of discontinuity. it can lead to brain droppings.
"Brain droppings?" I asked bewilderedly. "Discontinuity leads to not being able to differentiate,
dumbass!" He only replied "You're right," resignedly, hanging his head in shame. I sure mathed
that thing I had to math. Oh yeah, I mentally puffed,
god times. And I did mean God times. I don't know why
god insists on screwing the followers, but (I can tell you) it
sure is a divine expericnce. There's a sensation of getting filled
in more ways than one, ah... a double entendre.
ahyhoo, I was filled with the greatest sensation of
burning hatred toward the one-who-must-not-be-named. Voldemort? You might ask?
No. The one who called me a tubby bitch. He must be defeated. So I went to the realm
of the butter and gravy Ice Age. I thought
nostalgically. Did I ever miss that ice. Yet I
couldn't help wanting it far, far away. That damned ice
had wrongd me for the last time. So, as I was saying,
it was his eye, yes, it was this, his
eye resembled that of a vulture, a pale eye
but very large, and very evil. I resolved then that I had to kill him... which I did. Then I
buried him beneath the floorboards. Yes, I did get the idea from "The Tell-tale Heart." How'd you
know? You read it too, eh? Whoa. So you're the other one.
But back to this Neverending Story, which, by the way, was a
gravy boat gone so horribly wrong. Which leads me to my
next question: What the hell is teh difference between a highstepper and
a cheerleader's uniform? For chrissakes
it even makes Sir Banks dwell in perplexity
(Wich harms his complexion. Which is why he uses Noxema... in hsi hair.) Sir Banks was, of
course, fucking a lot (hence the name) and watching the classical film "Ass Party," when
I was informed of the brilliant editorial, "I Do So
Adore Adult Theater." I, of course, concurred, and set to
"high" the microwave. It certainly was not a hard task, and
took little time, but I was proud all the same. Yes, Ziza was
here and she can enlighten us with the notebook.
Now she's here as our friend, not a teacher
of the dark arts. Let's give a round of applause for... Ms Tausig! Yeah!"
No one applauded. I frowned. Apparently I was an awful emcee. "One more time!" I attempted.
Silence. Cold, cold, silence. And then, suddenly, a faint
baaing noise. "Ba." Once. Twice. I screamed.
I screamed again in agony as I looked out on all that was
laid out before me. It was horrendous -- all of that
butchered mass of stinky carcasses. Oh
crap, I don't knwo what to do
now," he intoned bawlingly, proving that it is possible to both bawl and
intone. So I killed him, stood on his body, and said, "Me uber alles! Yeah!"