It was a long time ago. In a galaxy far, far, away. So far as anyone knows. Spam told us this, and this Spam continues to tell us. So far as anyone knows. But anyway, the one thing we can be sure of is that it happened in an office building. Wait, we're not sure of that at all. It happened in a supermarket. Yes, that's it. The one thing we can be sure of is that it happened in a supermarket. NEW! Recent 1337 tells us that these supermarket rumors are nothing but a bunch of middle-wing asterisks, sent down upon us by the Unmighty to give us the jeebie-heebies. So there. Let's try this again. The one thing we can be sure of is that it happened in Australia. Aw dang. It looks like Australia popped out of existence again. That's the fifth time this week. We'll have to try again. I have decided to, in the interest of ascertaining the exact localization, flip a coin. I shall now flip it. .......The coin appears to have exploded. Desert it is, then. The one thing we can be sure of is that it happened in a desert. Never mind all the evidence to the contrary. From now on, it's always reality that's got it wrong. It was a pretty cool desert. So cool, in fact, that it was frozen. It was one of those new-age-y deserts. Like most deserts, it was filled with, like, camels, and, like scorpions and stuff. They perished rather quickly in the refrigerated climate, and thus the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to New-Age-y Deserts had to keep putting in new ones every half-hour or so. It was worth it, though. Great for tourism. Over in the Northsouthern corner of the desert was a really, really, tall icicle. It won an award for Big Icicleness. At its base was a beautiful, true to life statue of Ronald Regan and Minerva McGonagall playing poker with postcards while surrounded by stuffed animals. The really bizzare thing about this statue is that it was carved by the random accumulation and erosion of wind and snow over thousands of millions of years. This, Bob Gooseman would be the first to say, is so incredibly improbable that it should create a, like, black hole of improbability. One that was so freaking awesome it would destroy the world within 42 years. He was right, too, but we'll discuss that lanter. About four score and seven yards from that center of improbability lay a person. A female person. Her name was oftentimes Kissin' Kate Barlow. She was lying in the middle of that new-age-y desert, about a quarter thousand miles above her buried treasure. It was quite a quintessential collection of treasure. KKB had robbed every bank from Hell to Huston. Twice. So there KKB lay, her grinch-feet getting cold in the snow. Then, out of the corner of her eyelid, she saw something. It was a figure of a man. He was a tall, tall man, but nonetheless, his eyes twinkled as he strode forward. He wore nothing but a loincloth made of tulips and a golden sport coat. Unbeknownst to anybunny, including himself, the sport coat had been made out of Linus Van Pelt's blanket. Despite his strange clothes and stranger odors, KKB knew that man. She loved that man. He was Samuel Wulfric Amadeus Bizzaro Gamefaqs Brian Stevenson Zorascer the forty-second. You know, the onion picker guy. ...Let's just call him Sam. KKB knew that Sam was probably just a figment of her underworked, underpaid, and overeager imagination, but she figured, hey, what the heck. Better to make out with thin air than with nothing at all. "Oh, Samuel Wulfric Amadeus Bizzaro Gamefaqs Brian Stevenson Zorascer the forty-second!" she cried out. "I'm so cold, Sam! But I feel so hot..." Sam, in strange human fashion, aimed his corneas straight at hers and said, "You are hot." "Oh, Sam!" said KKB, clasping her hands together. "Do you really mean that?" "Duh," said Sam. "Tell you what, Katie, let's go on an adventure! Let's become space pirates! Or bounty hunters! Or even video game characters!" He seized her arm and gently dragged her upright. "We'll become famous! They'll write poetry about us! Even a Broadway musical!" "It sounds like a camel lodged inside a mustard seed, both of them larger than the kingdom of heaven," said KKB dreamily. "Let's get going!" Sam summoned up a boy or two from Beauxbatons, and they rode on the boys' backs until they reached the totally awesome spaceship. It looked just like any other spaceship, except you couldn't see the thrusters. That was because they were microscopic. For some reason, this saved on gas. So, off Sam and Katie rode, into a lifestyle beyond their dreamdest wilds. The microscopic thrusters on the ship made a strange pattern of sequences that was coincidentally enough a message in the language used by some of the local bacteria. They saw the thrusters as gods, and interpreted this message as divine prophecy. Naturally they then went on crusades. Eventually, enough bacteria were converted to Thrusteranity to cover the entire frozen desert. Then a plane crash-landed there, killing millions, and the bacteria panicked, seeing it as the first sign of the Apocalupose, and began rioting. As their rioting slogan, they chose Beware the Cyborg, for reasons not known at this time. The sheer heat of this rioting so irritated the desert that it rolled over, exposing its warm and sandy underside and permanently getting rid of the frigid climate. Naturally, to keep up with the times, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to New-Age-y Deserts turned its entire supply of camels and scorpions into polar bears and penguins. But that didn't stop the bacteria, so finally David Anez opened a freak wormhole, shoving them in. That seemed to do the trick. At about the same time, two generic half-elven dudes (well, one was a dudette) fell out of the portal and into the newly reshaped desert. Coincidentally, they both hit their heads and recived huge doses of amnesia, which had the fortunate side effect of curing their clinical depression and loathing for each other, as well as riding them of any bad habits. They went on to spawn an entire race of generic half-elven desert people. It was one of these guys who, fifteen hundred years later, quested to see the Wise Old Shaman. The Shaman had a name, but even he had stopped using it. The name was Roabertolasdjikstuvestondoqwalpenstud'vsdofkcnaselebfwandecherry smogqkwatbingoalbenyfromedafsgondtoothbrusherelaterbobarfqwenfortywhackened. So anyway this questing guy's name was much more fun to pronounce. It was Burgle. But on Tuesdays, he went by Roland, so we shall call him that. Roland's mother had died when he was vera young, and his father had disappeared even longer ago. His mother had always told him about his father's great deeds. "You'll take up his mantle, that you will," said Roland's mother, nodding. "What the heck is that supposed to mean?" Roland had demanded. "Should I just rip his fireplace off the wall or something?" "Well, I don't know!" his mother replied. "You're the protagonist." Driven nearly to madness by curiosity, Roland had finally gone to ask about his father with the Wise Old Shaman. It was said he could tell you the answer to any question, though he never revealed his full hand, and always had an ace up his sleeve. Given that the generic half-elven sand people had never heard of playing cards, it was odd that those two sayings had come into existence. Roland pulled himself up one of the New New-Age-y Desert's cliffs. There, just as the map had said, was the WOS, looking bemusedly at him. The WOS opened his mouth and yawned. "Did you bring the pizza?" "What??" sputtered Roland, completely thrown off track. The generic half-elven sand people had never heard of pizza either. "Oh," said the WOS, "I thought you were the pizza delivery boy." He smiled. "Well, that's for the better, anyway. The time has come, my dear Burgle, to talk of many things. Of cabbages, of potpourri and whether I have wings. I certainly don't want the pizza boy to be privy to such a conversation." "Why's that?" asked Roland. "Oh, I never trust a source of food." He paused. "That may be why I'm starving to death. But we must move on! I must give you an important message." The WOS handed Roland an extremely folded piece of paper and told him to read it. Roland unfolded the paper and stared at it. There was nothing written on it, and Roland told the WOS that. "Well, of course not," he said. "This is special paper. You've got to kiss it and tell it what a good piece of paper it is before you can read the message." "That makes no-" "Fine, I'll do it for you," snapped the WOS, doing so. He then gave the paper back to Roland. Unbelievably, it now bore a message, which was this: Beware the cyborg. Roland still stared at it. "What on earth does that mean?" "You should ask the bacteria," replied the WOS. "But now then. I understand you wanted to ask me a question?" Eagerly, Roland shouted, "YES!" "Well, then, let me get into my meditation stance." The WOS stretched a bit. He took out a shining silver bowl that was actually a transfigured Holy Grail. He then put his left foot in. He took his left foot out. Once again, he put his left foot in. And this time, he shook it all about. Then the WOS put his right foot in. He took his right foot out. He put his right foot in- "What on earth are you doing?" asked Roland. "The Hokey-Pokey," said the old man, turning himself about. He gave Roland a quizzical look. "That is what it's all about." "Can we just get to the question??!?!?" The WOS turned away from Roland, saying, "It it is not for a man to know the color of his own cheese." He sighed. "Many years ago, a brave young soul wanted answers from me, too. But do you know what he had do to get those answers?" "What?" "He had to come from many countries, with nothing but a dream. He had to sail from distant shores across the sea. He had to found a mighty country with liberty its theme. Now he lives in the land of the free." The WOS paused, and said," Jay Althouse was his name.....Am I irritating you yet?" "Yes," Roland said testily. "GOOD!" shouted the WOS, drawing twin blades. "Now I shall show you the future you have coming to you!" He charged. But Roland was ready. He countered with a blade of his own. And so they fought. They fought with swords. They fought with knives. They had an exciting grapple with tractor beams. The two even waged a mock trial with a cherry as the plaintiff and a coconut as the defendant. Finally, as the hot sun was considering retirement, the WOS and Roland watched each other, panting. For a long time, both were silent. Then the old one said, "How many 5th level spells can an experienced wizard cast?" "More than enough to destroy you and all your families," said Roland cheekily. The WOS nodded. "You have learned wisdom, then." He plunged both swords into his own chest, and collapsed. Roland stared at him. Well, that was just great. He'd ended up killing the only man who could have provided him with an answer. Just then, a monkey appeared. The monkey walked over to the cherry and the coconut. He picked them up as they both turned into cantaloupes. The monkey stared at the cantaloupes for a long time, judging them. He weighed them in his hands. Finally, he made his decision and smashed them both on his head. Then he turned into Illie, and walked over to Roland, who was kneeling by the wounded WOS. "Ya want some help with that?" Illie asked, pointing at the swords embedded in the WOS' chest. "Yes, please," said Roland. Illie pulled out his own sword and stabbed the WOS in the back. "No, no, NO!" cried Roland. "We need to keep him alive!" "Oh," said Illie, pouting. "That's not nearly as much fun. Very well. We shall take him to the ER!" "Emergency room?" "No, the Evil Robot." "Huh?" "Look," Illie explained. "The injury is bad, right? And therefore evil. So is the Evil Robot. Everybody knows that two negatives make a positive, so if we multiply the stabbity and the robot, we neutralize them both!" Another Illie appeared out of nowhere. "Sorry, but the Evil Robot is on vacation." "Where?" "Eastern Russia." "Er, Really? Eastern Russia?" "Exactly Right!" "Then we try plan Q: we do the Macarena until Doomsday." Roland stared for a full three minutes before saying, "I'm going to talk to the dying guy now." "Scrumdidliyumptious!" "Old one," Roland said, kneeling. "Can you-" "Jimbo? Jim Hawkins, is that you?" said the WOS weakly. "No, it's me, Roland/Burgle." "Oh. You die enough times in your life, it starts to get monotonous. Anyway, I have something to tell you. Come closer." Roland came closer. "Beware the cyborg." "What is that all about??" "Ah, Jim, tis' merely a flesh wound. Now, I grow old, and before I die, there was a question you wanted to ask me?" "Yes," said Roland, scarcely breathing. "Who is my father?" "Ah yes," said the old man. "The answer..." "Yes?" "To your question..." "Yes?? "Is..." "YES??" "Is..." "YES?!? "Forty-Two." Roland blinked in confusion. "HA!!" said the Wise Old Sage, jumping up and beeping Roland on the nose. He then pulled out all the swords and threw them against the nearest tree. They turned into wedges of cheese and the tree ate them. "How on earth did you survive that?" sputtered Roland. "Oh, I'm made of jelly," said the sage. He bit off one of his arms to demonstrate. "It is imperative that you take out my greatest potion and pour it on the ground. Y'know, Nike, and all that." He then popped out of existence for the fifth time in his life. Not knowing what else to do, Roland rummaged in the WOS's bag. "There are a ton of potions in here. Which one should I use?" "Try the green one," suggested Illie. And so Roland dumped the entire contents of the green bottle onto the ground. The result of this was that some of the sand on the ground was turned into a strange man. He was a tall, tall man, with shoes that matched the color of his eyes. Invisible. The man was very confused. "Wasn't I fighting windmills a few seconds ago?" "No." "Well," the man insisted, "I'll have to get started. Don't wait up for me!" He ran off, leaving a very confused Roland. The man ran across the desert. He ran for thousands of miles. He ran beneath the burning moonshine. He ran beneath golden clouds. He ran far, and long. Finally, he attacked the first windmill he saw. And the second, and the next, and the next... Not only did the man become popular with local superheroes for defeating the infamous Windmill Man, but the government was also very pleased by his actions, and gave the man the Congressional Medal of Honor and a week off. During that week, the man went to the library to pick out a name. He spent hours poring over books, and finally chose to meld the names of Sir Isaac Newton, Augustus Caesar, the Venomous Knid, Edgar Alan Poe, and Martin Luther King Junior. Then SAVPJ did a bit of light reading. He found a book called The Book of the Burninator. It read: Lyke d00d! Troggosdd is so tota11y kewl! SAVPJ tossed it disdainfully over his shoulder, and grabbed another one. It read, on its very first page: Beware the Cyborg. He tossed that book over his shoulder, and grabbed a third one. This one was called A Study of Sauron Relastatistics With Regard to Temporal Casualty. SAVPJ thought it sounded fascinating, so he began to read. There are many, many incarnations of the Dark Lord Sauron throughout the multiverse. Some are good. Some are evil. Some are competent. Some are not. We see a whole lot more of the incompetent ones, cause they're just so darn funny. It was one of these Saurons that we come to now. This Sauron was a bit of a social climber. He had some other bits too, like from TV executives and from Cruella De Ville, but mostly he was social climber. So Sauron sat on his purple throne, glaring out at the many party guests he had assembled around him. "I shall now tell you why I have assembled you all here. It is so I can be the greatest party-hoster of all! Stronger even than Mew." "And how exactly do you propose to do that?" asked Alan Rickman. "I'm very glad you asked me that," said Sauron. "Oh, Tedd?" Out of nowhere, a purple-haired dude appeared and zapped all the party guests into 20-year-old attractive females. "Mew always has lots of hot girls at his parties," Sauron cackled. "Now I shall be the greatest. I shall win the Best Party Hoster of the Year Award! And I'll rub it in his face, too!" "That's great," said Brian Clevenger, "but couldn't you have used real girls?" "YOU DARE QUESTION MY AUTHORITY??" Sauron screamed, spinning into a firey column of rage. "I SHALL BURN YOU IN THE FIRES OF HELL IF YOU DO IT AGAIN!!" Brian Clevenger retracted his previous comment. "So, Robert Louis Stevenson, " snapped Sauron, "Get up here and serve me drinks." "Why do I have to serve you drinks?" complained Stevenson. "Because you're hot," said Sauron, grinning. "That sounds like something Sam would say to Kissin' Kate Barlow," observed Stevenson. Sauron pondered this for a moment. "Nah, not really. Anyway, now it's time for the photo shoot!" Sauron gathered all the now-female guests together and floated about three feet in in the air in front of them. Then he took a picture with his 1337 p0Waz. "AHAHAH!" cackled Sauron. "Behold my power! I am the greatest party hoster of all! Stronger even then Mew." "Actually, sir," said Bob Gooseman, "We've just received word that Mew has won the Best Party Hoster of the Year Award. Again." He showed Sauron Mew's picture. Sauron gasped. "Bathing suits! I knew I should have utilized the power of the One Bikini! All of you, change into bikinis!" There were some general murmurs of dissent. "YOU DARE QUESTION MY AUTHORITY??" "No, sir," they said as they went off to get bikinis. "$%$@ right," said Sauron. He then did what he always did when alone. The Hokey-Pokey. Unfortunately, he put his left foot too far in, and the floor beneath his throne collapsed, dropping Sauron into a vast pit of purple liquids and insane flowering trees. "Ah," said Sauron. "This must be an advancement of the plot." He peered around the dark tunnel. Just ahead, he could see a massive, disturbingly purple figure, lying on its stomach on a platform that was shaped like a Rolex sundial. As the blobby figure rolled over, it exposed its distrubingly green belly. Sauron stepped a bit closer. There was a zoo-type sign on a post, apparently to tell people about the specimen. It read: This guy is a dinosaur from our imagination. Other than that, the sign told nothing more. Sauron went directly over to the misshapen dinosaur and tapped him on the shoulder. The dinosaur awoke with a start and grabbed Sauron by the arm. "CORNELIUS DOO? Is that you??" "What? No, I'm the Dark Lord Sauron. One of them, anyway." "Ah", the dinosaur said, relaxing. "I thought for a moment income taxes had come early this year." "Who exactly are you?" Sauron aked curiously. The dinosaur took a moment to think about this. Finally, he said wheezily,"Barnabus....At least, that is how I am known to some. To my very close friends I am called Barney." He sighed. "I'm afraid, though, that I've put the name rather out of fashion..." Barney rolled over again, looking exausted. "I am, or rather was, the god of educational televison...Was I? Yes, I'm certain. I must have been." "But one day I gave my great gift to mankind. I loved them, as all the gods did. But that was my undoing. For you see, the other gods were not at all happy about it. Jealous, I would say." "Especially Budweiser and Sefexia. The gods of beer and sex," he explained, at Sauron's puzzled look. "So they pinned me here for all eternity with a couple of dull spoons. On fire." Barnabus sighed yet again. "But wait," Sauron asked, "How have you been able to roll over with all these spoons pinning you down?" "How should I know??" demanded Barnabus."The gods work in mysterious ways." He went on. "To add insult to injury, they send a number of ravens down here every night to devour my elbows. I wouldn't mind it so very badly if they only did it once, but by morning my elbows have grown back again." "These ravens go by many names. Low Ratings, Poor Acting...the worst of all is Misguided Political Correctness." "So wait," Sauron exclaimed, finally getting the big picture, "This is all just some sort of metaphor for the woes of educational television?" "Yes," said Joseph Campbell, appearing for no reason except to perhaps impart huge swales of wisdom, "And in fact, the image comes to us mainly from Prometheus, the god who gave man fire, the basis of all technology. You could even find a similar figure in Eve, who gave Adam the apple-" Sauron snapped his figures and Tedd appeared, promptly turning Joseph Campbell into a youthful female. "You are a strange man, Sauron." "I know." Sauron grinned. "Say, aren't you dead?" "Aren't you?" They winked at each other. After a while Campbell said, "Oh, and another thing. How can you make Tedd appear out of nowhere like that?" "I dunno," Sauron told him, shrugging. "I just took it for granted." "Well, you won't be taking much for granted anymore," said Tedd evily. "Did you think I was me? BECAUSE I'M NOT ME! I'm actually-" He stopped and attempted to unzip his head. "Can you hold my hat? I've done this before, but I never wore the hat!" "You're not wearing a hat." "Ah," said 'Tedd', satisfied. "That must be it." In a puff of smoke, he turned into a bluish robot. "I'M ACTUALLY....SHADOW MAN!!" Sauron stared for a whole .0075 seconds before saying, "I'm going to talk to the dying guy now." "I'm not dying!" snapped Barney. "Okay, the mortally wounded...ing guy." "In fact, I think I'm getting better." He coughed. "But I do have something to say to you." "What's that?" "Beware the cyborg." "Ah," said Sauron. "I thought it might be something like that." "It couldn't be helped," Barnabus said in a resigned tone of voice. "At any rate, the Hour of Elbow Eating is almost upon us. Your only hope, and mine, is to throw Shadow Man into that random portal over there." "Hey!" said Shadow Man, obviously affronted. Sauron seized him by the bootstraps and threw him into the portal. The sensation Shadow Man then experienced was somewhat like this: KWWJHAKFHADFAKLF!!!! Then it was all gone, and there was a strange plop, rather like that of a robot landing on a velvet chair. It was, in fact, the sound of a robot landing on a velvet chair. The robot saw two people standing in the center of the room. Oddly enough, they were surrounded by fairly realistic looking false icebergs, and an even more realistic fake rendition of a beautiful, true to life statue of Ronald Regan and Minerva McGonagall playing poker with postcards while surrounded by stuffed animals, carved by the random accumulation and erosion of wind and snow over thousands of millions of years. Also, the two people were singing. "Oh, Samuel Wulfric Amadeus Bizzaro Gamefaqs Brian Stevenson Zorascer the forty-second!" the woman sang out. "I'm so cold, Sam! But I feel so hot..." The man, in strange human fashion, aimed his corneas straight at hers and sang, "You are hot." "Oh, Sam!" sang the woman, clasping her hands together. "Do you really mean that?" "Duh," sang the man in a beautiful tenor. "Tell you what, Katie, let's go on an adventure! Let's become space pirates! Or bounty hunters! Or even video game characters!" He seized her arm and gently danced with her. "We'll become famous! They'll write poetry about us! Even a Broadway musical!" "It sounds like a camel lodged inside a mustard seed, both of them larger than the kingdom of heaven," sang the woman dreamily. "Let's get going!" And on that note, they proceeded to do a magnificent song and dance sequence on the backs of two boys from Beauxbatons. The audience applauded. "What's going on here?" asked Shadow Man. "You're watching Space Pirates, Bounty Hunters, or Video Game Characters," said Mr. Friendly Plot Device. "The Musical." "But Mr. Device-" said Shadow Man. "Oh please, call me Friendly." "Friendly, who authorized this play?" "Well, my boy, it's a long story, but I'd be glad to tell you." So Mr. Device told him. It was a long and sordid tale, filled with ups and downs, twists and turns. It was a story of heartbreak. Of dramatic clashes between good and evil. It was also the wrong story. So Mr. Device tried again. Once upon a time in this big ol' multiverse of ours, there was a quest. A quest to get a Broadway musical authorized. This quest was made difficult because there was only one man who could authorize a Broadway musical. He was about 3.14599048 feet tall, with a slight overbite and a degree in medical psychotics. He wore clothes that had once been worn by Jim Davis on the very day he created Garfield, and his shoes were made from the same leather that made the leather jacket worn by Sharnat Mamoonie as he married Evanna Rickman. His hat was from a thrift store. His teeth were perfectly combed, and his hair shone pearly white. This man was Author, King of the Non-Canadians, and he was on an intergalactic cruise. In his office. Naturally, he was very hard to access if you wanted to get your Broadway musical authorized. This was entirely intentional on Author's part. He hated musicals. Preferred a good comic strip any day of the week. Which, y'know, made it kind of odd that he'd become the chief executive in charge of musical authorization. Actually, the heads of the Broadway Musical Corp were more than eager to give it away. They just showed up on his doorstep one morning and forced him into a sales contract. They were all, like, congratulations! You've just won the world's greatest theater corporation! I think it was more because Author's name seemed to fit the job than it was anything else. Anyway, his constant habit of being unavailable caused a major problem for the BMC, and thus, around the time Sam and KKB applied for their musical, the heads managed to circumvent the pothole they'd found themselves in. They cloned Author by way of his flight attendants, gave the clone the same name, and raised him to believe that the hatred of musicals is the root of all evil. The clone ratified Space Pirates, Bounty Hunters, or Video Game Characters. After Friendly had related the salient parts of this story to Shadow Man, Shadow Man said, "Yes, but I don't see what that has to do with the Earth and mice and things." "Neither do I," said Friendly conversationally. He turned his attention back to the play, which had paused to listen to their conversation until now. "Oh, look! The penguins are about to come on. They do a great lounge scene before the end. But personally, I'm most looking forward to the song at the finale of Act One." "And what song is that?" "Beware the cyborg." Space Pirates, Bounty Hunters, or Video Game Characters was arguably Broadway's best musical ever. It won a Grammy every year for seven years. The eighth year, someone realized they'd mixed up the awards, and finally started handing out Tonys. It was the best-selling musical in twenty-five years, and contained the most actors and crewmen in the history of Broadway. The cast list alone weighed 42 pounds. And it was hailed by critics, and had the longest Broadway run ever. The youngest actor had children by the time it stopped showing. When on earth did it stop? When it was taken over by a new, alternative musical, hailed by Remus Lupin as "the finest liteterary mind since Einstein invented the lightbulb." vTicket sales crashed then, and Space Pirates, Bounty Hunters, or Video Game Characters is now showing only in the Broadway History Books, which are incidentally available from Milton-Bradley. What was the name of this new musical? The Cyborg. It wasn't until 30083 that it was discovered that The Cyborg was actually a pretty crappy musical, and the only reason people had been coming to it was because of massive hypnotic equipment concealed in the outfits of the female cast. Actually, some would say there was already hypnotic equipment concealed in the females' outfits-WHACK! Please, let us have a moment of silence for the poor writer of this Spamfic. He is currently recovering from hammer-induced injuries. ....... But anyway, the creators of the Cyborg were sued (via time travel, of course) but they refused to show up for their court session. Historical articulation revealed the reason: they had actually been a Demonic Duck and a talking croissant masquerading as humans! This sent the entire wizarding universe into a storm. One o'dem big thunderclouds. Not because of their actual physicality, no. The days have long passed when one can get away with being species-ist, and croissants now form the backbone of our society No, it was because the duo had used this opportunity to cheat on their income taxes. The aformentioned storm took form of a war, and monkeys joined either side, and Eragon's blade of pizza impurities scattered the doughnut alliance far and wide. Five hours of angry phone calls were manifest in the final climax, and seventy-six trombones destroyed them. Fifteen thousand lightly fried eggs took up the sword, and slew the vicious Chicken of Bristol, and it all was about to come to a head- When suddenly, Red Mage froze the universe, and everything had to be put on hold. But hey, that's just the way things go... In A-A-A-ALBERQUEQUE! ALBERQUEQUE! ALBERQUEQUE! ALBERQUEQUE! ALBERQUEQUE! YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!! FADE TO BLACK