Remember DOS batch files?

Verily Satan our Dark Lord shall be pissed off. Trick and treaters were forced to confound Him, the Beast, in his evil machinations since there was no electrical power on October 31.  Trick or treating was moved up a week to November 6.  No demons, no witches, no black sabbath... in a word, boring.

There was a three bean salad, which served as an introduction to existential angst. Linus Pauling was to be the first speaker, accompanied by the 59th Street Bridge Brass & Jello Ensemble playing Misty for me.  During the salad and soup course, a Dali llama was tied to the podium with hemp rope while Moroccan diesel mechanics threw M. C. Escher prints rolled up and filled with deviled ham at it. Rod Stewart throat sang the theme from Star Wars, his hair being pulled by matronly types with turbans and false beards.

Apropos of nothing, things started appearing out of nothingness, briefly, immeasurably becoming a thing, then winking out again.  Such is the way of things, that even a reptile can get a decent cup of coffee in this town.

More idol threats

As the idol of millions (of bacteria, parasites et. al. living in my body, depending on my continued existence for their continued existence), my major life's decisions become a concern to multitudes.  I am extremely important, obviously.  That is why I and my dependents are concerned that I am considering joining the Army.  Being reduced to this simple blog to channel my evil machinations, cut off from Illogicopedia, so to speak, I fear my "talent" are being wholly wasted.  This fear has manifested itself in tentacle growth, psychic activity, localized earthquakes and other disturbing phenomenon.  The neighbors, I suspect, are beginning to suspect something, I think.

Younch notwithstanding, aliens are also making a nuisance of themselves.  The space kind, I mean to say.  There's a bunch of them that gather weekly, the next street over.  They pretend to play music with instruments, possibly rock and roll, but are so awful it's an obvious cover for invasion planning sessions.

Regional finals for the Olympic trials in the 8 meter downhill speed pooping event are being held at the local minor league baseball stadium here, just across the river from here.  I'll be able to hear the announcer, chatting about poop and sports, and feel like, nothing has really changed.

Server Escapes Unscathed, But For How Long?

We're back baby, after that vicious bout of panama disease steam-rolled its way through the wiki plantation. The Banana Scientist himself has managed to alleviate the dishevelled server that now graces the table. A hand to our hosts, Lord Van Crinkle-bottom and Sir Reggie Wincest.

I've run out of joke related steam now, so, as the light waltz of the evenings embers fade away, go away.