Oh, let the winds blow high,
Let the winds blow low,
Through the streets of Makilt I go,
And the lassies say "Hello
Donald--where's your trousers?"

I was going to share a very queer dream I had with y'all (do I still have anyone visiting?) but, alas, I was logged out before submitting. Curse you, Mambo! The point was simply that there is no way in heck I can be psychoanalyzed. Know who else can't be psychoanalyzed? Sleeper-agents.

It's all starting to come together...

Even cooler than my being an unwitting assassin of death, programmed to go beserk at the utterance of a single word, is this amazing little animation. I wish I knew where I downloaded it from.

Anyway, since I think I have some obligation to generate some creative material here, I'm also going to post a story about a frightening experience I had last year. Stay tuned. . .