When Love Is Gone

Over Thanksgiving break, I had dinner with a friend from high school, Mary Kate. She lives in L.A. and works as an actress, among other jobs. We have written some things together, and, through collaboration, have gotten to be good friends, on the basis that we know things about each other that few others do. When you write with someone, you learn about things that don’t come up in conversation. Like where the dinosaurs really went. But I actually use that bit in regular conversations, so it’s not a good example.

Mary Kate is currently in rehearsals for a stage musical version of A Christmas Carol. This beloved holiday tale is based on a novella by Charles Dickens, who was paid per word, so the real Christmas miracle is that the story is so short. I realize that currently there is an adaptation in theaters, but the previews for it make Jim Carrey look like one of those Terminators which had rubber skin, before Skynet figured out how to clone human tissue. At least that’s how I explained it to my niece.
Mary Kate’s role is Belle, Ebeneezer Scrooge’s one-time squeeze, who pops up during his time travel tour with the Ghost of Christmas past. I was delighted to hear this, because Belle has the best solo in what is now believed to be the greatest Dickensian adaptation, A Muppet Christmas Carol.
Wikipedia says that despite using muppets, the film is a fairly close adaptation, as if someone might have assumed Dickens originally wrote the character of Cratchit for a frog and had envisioned Scrooge’s school teacher as a patriotic American bald eagle. To Wikipedia’s credit, they’re right – there were no muppets in the original book. But they didn’t cite their sources.

When I was younger, as in a senior in high school, my family would watch A Muppet Christmas Carol every winter break, multiple times. For some reason it was adopted as a yuletide mascot, to represent our Christmas spirit. We know all the songs. Then, when I finally read the original story, I was amazed at how closely the muppet’s film followed the narrative. Most of Gonzo’s pertinent lines are unadulterated Charles. Except for “Light the lamp, not the rat.” Though it has no literary basis, this catchphrase has been popular in my family for some time.
I told Mary Kate that when I relayed this information to my mom, she wouldn’t reply, but her face would slide down as if anesthetized, and she would begin to sing Belle’s solo, “When Love Is Gone.” I also told her that I wouldn’t be able to resist, but that I would join in and sing Scrooge’s part when the solo becomes a duet around the bridge.
The best part is, they stand on a physical bridge when they sing that part. Don’t believe me? Watch the video. IN COLOR!
And when I told my mom, she became sober, and began to sing, “It was almost love/It was almost always…” And I sang with her.
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It Is Finished

At my house, we don’t have a television, or internet. We’re off the grid, just in case the robots come looking for me. Therefore, I don’t play video games during the semester. I [SARCASM BEGINS] focus on school work [SARCASM ENDS] instead. This was the original purpose of the Pankration – to provide a video game binge after a semester in rehab. Thus, I spent months (literally, months) of deliberating which game I would play, oscillating between titles like Dragon Age: Origin and Fallout 3. Last week I sat down with my little brother in the fraternity, Tim Yopp, and asked his advice. After a solid half hour, we decided on Final Fantasy VIII, a RPG released in 1999 for the original PlayStation. I had to go back a decade to get the proper Pankration experience. That’s why I’m the Laser Wolf (which I just decided is the title of the head of the Pankration. I’m shooting from the hip, but I think it will stick).

Final Fantasy VIII uses Roman numerals instead of Arabic characters to communicate that it is a very serious game. It uses four discs, and Tim told me it took him ninety (90) hours to beat the game. That’s like four days. Without ever sleeping.
I fell asleep around 3:30. At that time, I had been playing for ten hours, and I had completed the first disk and turned off the console in order to put in the second. That was my mistake. I should never had given my body a chance to escape. Curse my flesh! It can’t even play a video game for ninety hours!
I love Japanese stories. They are entirely too melodramatic; they always involve young people embroiled in strong emotions. There’s always an unexplainable, spiritual element circulating. Some nights, I will go to Blockbuster without a specific movie in mind, just with the parameters that it must be anime, because I want to experience emotions so over the top that human actors couldn’t pull them off.
Final Fantasy VIII is no different. It’s everything I hoped for in my own life, but cannot have, because the leading scientists it the world still can’t figure out how to make swords in the shape of eight foot long planks of wood.
My pledges all reported in yesterday. They all saw the sunrise; most fell asleep immediately afterwards, around 5:30. One, David, made it to 7:02 exactly. I’m not sure what’s significant about that. I talked to Tim Yopp around lunchtime. He still hadn’t slept. He was just starting his third game.

Today is the Pankration

Two years ago tonight, I created a monster, and by monster I mean the acronym M.O.N.S.T.E.R., More Oreos, No Strong Tea ETERNAL RAMPAGE! (exclamation mark my past self’s emphasis, not present self mine). I acknowledge that I threw out grammar for the sake of the final acronym, and yes, I’ll come close to but not entirely follow through with admitting that I started with the word monster and worked backwords. However, I can explain.

Two years ago tonight, I bought a gallon of Arizona Iced Tea and a package of Double Stuffed Oreos, along with several double-A batteries for my 360 controller and the game Mass Effect. This was the first Pankration, as I played from sundown to sunup the Monday before Thanksgiving. I skipped all my Tuesday classes.

Last year, with the same supplies, I logged twelve straight hours into Final Fantasy X. That Pankration heralded a new era of holiday, as I finished celebrating a week later. I played over thirty hours that week.

Previously, I have been the only person to honor the Pankration. My goal this year was to raise participation at least 10%. Even the Olympics can’t claim to do that. Instead, through an aggressive marketing campaign that enslaved the pledges to promote my holiday, there’s now over 250 people from multiple states and college campuses that will pankratronize. That’s several month’s worth of video games, in one night.

I got the name from my Classics teacher, Dr. Levine, who has hair like Kid from Kid ‘n’ Play, and huge black rimmed glasses that someone could punch through without touching the frames. He told me that the Pankration was an ancient Greek combat event where the only two rules were 1) no gouging of eyes, and 2) no biting. As apart of the Olympics, all nations competed in the event except the Spartans, who would never surrender and thus died in competition whenever they lost.

Piggybacking on the historical validity of the old Pankration, I linked from its Wikipedia page to create my own, which was sadly deleted. However, the talk page is still open. Visiting it, you will notice there is a strong and honorable fight between the editors of Wikipedia and some unknown elements. Those are pledges. I told them of the movement to delete the page, and they led a valiant crusade to keep the page legitimate as well as existant.

You can witness the argument go downhill, however, at the point where a user with the name “Half Man Half Rancor (Mancor)” enters the arena and challenges the editor who was our main antagonist, “Singularity42,” to “prove that he is in fact a human and not a cyborg trying to infiltrate the plans for a mass expansion of the Pankration sensation.” He then demands that Singularity42 cite his sources as to his humanity. At another point, he attempts to appeal to Mr. Wikipedia, and upon discovering there’s no such person, he tries to spin that fact into the argument that made up things are still legitimate.

I haven’t yet identified Half Man Half Rancor (Mancor).

I am proud, though, that we put up enough of a fight that one of the head editors of Wikipedia thought the issue had enough relevance to sum up the arguement after the page was deleted. He said this:

“The result was a snowball delete. The discussion has spawned a lot of confusion and some rancor. As for the confusion, the repeated references to [the article] Wikipedia is not for things made up one day made it appear that Wikipedia’s standard for inclusion is existence. It’s not. Instead, the issue here is notablity…But that has not swayed the consensus in the discussion, which is trending heavily and irreversibly delete. Where a discussion is certain to lead to only one outcome, it’s time to close it.”

I feel like this is an equivalent of a Supreme Court decision, which provides a precedent for all other similar minded cases. This is the Pankration’s legacy. Also, no word yet if the editor meant to pun when he said the discussion spawned some rancors.

Capture the Officer

The pledge mission this week was Capture the Officer. For three days, from noon to midnight, pledges had to track down, chase, tackle, and tie up the executive officers of the fraternity. We did not go quietly. The police can attest to that, in at least one case.

Our pledges are divided up into four houses, named after four of the founding fathers of the fraternity. Each pledge mission is worth house points, and the cumulative house point total for the semester decides who wins the Area Cup, the prestigious pledgeship trophy. Yes, this all came from Harry Potter. That would make me Dumbledore, and all I have to say to that is, I’vepretended to be lesser wizards before.
Points were attached to the circumstances of the capture, to make the competition more interesting. Fifty points were given for each individual capture, but bonus points were available; these points were earned by the items or setting of the hostage picture the house took. Here’s a quick menu:
In the Union food court – 25 points
On a moped – 25 points
Kissed by sorority girls – 25 points
In a shopping cart – 50 points
In Barnes and Noble – 50 points
At Mount Sequoyah – 50 points
Buying the office ice cream – 75 points
Riding go carts – 75 points
With a live horse – 100 points
You can see the logic behind some of these. I love Barnes and Noble. Most guys like kisses. All the officers love ice cream. The horse was sort of a “what the hay” thing – I didn’t think it would actually be done. Little did I know.
These could also be combined. If the officer was eating ice cream at Barnes and Noble astride a live horse, that’s 225 points, plus the fifty for the initial capture. That being said, let’s score some of these photos, you and I.
This is Jessie Green; he was the first to be captured. Since all the doors were locked, the House of Duke broke through a window screen in his basement, came up the stairs and pulled him out of the top bunk he sleeps in every night like he’s a five year old. Kudos for the special operations night vision, but that’s all. 50 points.
Jessie had a rough night Tuesday. House of Wagner. 50 points. No extra for caressing.
Our president Lowell, captured by the House of Miller on Thursday. Lowell’s original plan was to lock his doors every day at noon and not come out for any reason until the next morning. He even made a grocery run before the game started. This plan fell through, though, when two complete houses came to his house on Wednesday night demanding his blood in some sort of spiritual communion exercise. This spooked him enough to attempt to switch hide outs, at which point he was captured. Ice cream, shopping cart, and girls make this worth 200 points.
The House of Miller’s capture of me. They followed me from the library, waited for an hour outside the Kappa house (because the Kappa’s refused to let them in), and then ran me down like a loose puppy trying to make it to freedom in the middle of the road. Marks for moped and girls; 100 points.
Also note David Norris, who is wearing a Pankration shirt. He’s been a major force in the promotion of my holiday, and tells me there are 200 people in a Facebook group committed to a Pankration celebration. He even made flyers.
Miller’s capture of both Eric Barnes and Andy Brown. Miller was a busy house on Thursday, capturing in all six officers. These captures came off tips from the paterfamilias of their house, Ryan Miller himself. That’s like Godric Gryffindor catching the Golden Snitch. Okay, maybe more like Helga Hufflepuff. Two officers, two mopeds, ice cream for all: 300 points.
The House of Cooper captured me on Wednesday. They waited outside my Classical Literature class, and chased me literally halfway across campus before I collapsed like an asthmatic. They duct taped my arms from the wrist to the elbow, and my legs from the ankles to the knees. They put me in a truck with a bag over my head. They tickled me.
I tried to resist at every possible moment. Escape wasn’t really an option, because I moved like a pogo stick, but every time the cab door opened, I managed to fall out onto the pavement. I wouldn’t stand, either – I’d make them put my dead weight back into the truck.
Sorority girls, moped, shopping cart, AND live horses: 250 points. They would have gotten 75 more with ice cream, but one of the pledges put the ice cream sandwich in my hands before they took the picture. That’s a mistake. Before they could get the camera turned on, I ate the entire sandwich with the wrapper still on. You can’t see it, but my face is covered in chocolate.
I like to think of all this as training for when my cover as a human is eventually blown. I’LL TELL YOU NOTHING!

I Wish I Had a Picture of This Sweater

Several years ago, cleaning out Mrs. Ureckis’s garage, I found her old Arkansas sweater. It’s knitted grey wool, with several red A’s on the front and an anthropomorphic razorback on the back, leaning on an oversized basketball. The buttons are plastic footballs, and the sleeves fit a woman roughly 5’3″. I knew what I discovered was more precious than gold, even if I can sell it for cash.

I don’t bring the sweater out often. It an attention grabber, and it’s quite greedy. It grabs attention out of the hands of children and non-sentient infants as well as adults. Distracting, it is. But tonight was my last Arkansas game. Home game. To sit in the student section. As a student. I realize there are a lot of qualifying details present, but it was still significant, I believe. Actually, I’m not sure; I tried to skip it, and my pledges made me come, citing these reasons.
Wearing this sweater at the game, I reconnected with many resident mates from my freshman dorm. I hadn’t spoken with these people in three years, but suddenly they had to know where my sweater came from. It was as if there was a grossly sized millstone tied to their heart, pulling it down, putting a great strain upon it, and the only way the alleviate that strain was to know OH MY GOODNESS CASS WHERE DID YOU GET THAT SWEATER?
Oh, hello, Tori. It’s great to see you again, too, after three years. Don’t worry – I’ve completely gotten over that debilitating crush I had on you for several months spring semester of our freshman year, the hope created by which you crushed when you visibly became disgusted with me after I suggested we watch Battlestar Galatica sometime as a means to hang out. Are you graduating on time?
I had to leave at halftime in order to arrive on time to an engagement party for a fraternity brother. As I walked away from the stadium, I fell into step with two girls, one of which had not only drank a few beers, but had drank all the beers the other had ordered, as well. We began to talk about my sweater. They wanted to know where it came from, and I told them. They asked if a grandmother had crafted it, and I answered that I thought it most likely that robots made it, in a factory somewhere underground. After a moment of confusion, they asked where I was going, and I told them – an engagement party for a friend. But don’t tell anyone, because it’s supposed to be a secret.
The drunk girl, upon hearing this, began to shout, “Two people are getting engaged tonight! This guy with the sweater is going to their party!” I like to think that when this girl is sober, she’s very clever. She would probably have been able to internalize that comment and come up with something much more sharp and funny to say. However, drunk as she was, this was the best she could come up with. I tried to play along, though, and became mock angry, and told her I’d never trust her with any secret ever again. I smiled after saying this, and kept walking, but she stopped and grabbed my arm. I could tell, in about ten seconds, she was going to cry. “I didn’t mean it, I swear. I didn’t know.”
In this moment, I had a very odd feeling, like laughter mixed with the sort of sobs that make your chest heave. The sweater brings out very intense emotions.

These Pancakes Have No Regard For the Law

Last night my fraternity, Beta Upsilon Chi (BYX, bucks) threw it’s fifth annual Uncle BYX pancake dinner. The event is a fundraiser for our philanthropy, Life Source, which is a food bank and resource center for the impoverished section of Fayetteville. There were over six hundred people, and we ran out of pancakes.

With eighty pledges, we didn’t have enough jobs for everyone; when I pledged, each one of us had to serve pancakes, then stay afterwards till one in the morning cleaning up. Last night, they finished all the work by 11:30. We divided the group in half, where half served pancakes, while the other half was on ‘dance duty.’ Pledges on dance duty had to be dancing with a girl at all times. They were more resistant to this than I expected.
There were other jobs: ticket taker, t-shirt table, coffee captain, teddy bear peddler (I’m not sure where the bears came from, but dog gone it, we had a pledge selling them). All the cooks were members; that job is almost a Tom Sawyer thing. We tell all the pledges they’re not allowed to cook until they’re members, then when they become members, all they want to do is make pancakes. On the upside, if you’re a cook, fraternal tradition holds that on the night of Uncle BYX only, you can give pledges any nickname you wish, and they have to respond. Four years after my pledgeship, Dirty Mike and the Grizz still go by the nicknames that they were given by then senior Blake Area.
The most coveted jobs, though, were the pancake costumes. We made two pancake costumes to promote Uncle BYX; pledges wore these throughout the week in the busiest intersections on campus. I considered it a blunt force type of marketing – a pancake rapidly approaches you, yelling about philanthropy, and grabs you by the collar. That’s not a fictional situation. We sold several tickets this way.
Last night, we put two pledges in those costumes and posted them on Dickson Street, which ran in front of our venue. The two couldn’t have been more happy with their assignment, and I left them dancing the the song of car horns. An hour later, I got a call from a friend who said policemen were outside Uncle BYX talking to pancakes. Were those my pancakes?
From the policemen, I gathered this: the pancakes had been running one side of the street to the other, like Frogger, dodging cars. Also, at one point, the pancakes got into the bed of someone’s truck and drove down and up Dickson Street promoting our event. We promised they would stick to our side of the curb, and the police left the pancakes in peace.
The item my mind keeps returning to is the tip the police receieved. They said they got a call about the activities of the pancakes, and responded. But who would make that call?
911: 911, what’s your emergency?
Caller: P-p-pan-pancakes! There are pancakes in the road!
911: Please, slow down. Tell me what’s happening.
Caller: There are two pancakes who are terrorizing Dickson Street. It’s like Road Warrior.
911: You say pancakes?
Caller: That’s right. Rogue pancakes. They’re showing a complete disregard for the law.
911: Can you tell me where you are on Dickson?
Caller: I-I – no, I can’t. I think they can hear me.
911: Excuse me?
Caller: They’re looking at me. Oh, no. God no.
911: Stay calm, we’re sending help.
Caller: No – Please no! THIS WAS FORETOLD! THIS IS HOW IT ENDS!
That’s probably how it sounded.

My Nightmare is Banished

I posted earlier a story about my high school nemesis, who was appointed Kappa Kappa Gamma house chef and subsequently my boss. This is the A+ Number One nightmare of geeks: that those who abused them in high school really will be cooler than them in twenty years.

Will was chef for two months, and during his reign of terror we had such dishes as cous cous, brie and apple sandwiches, and no desserts. He also managed to take away the traditional, weekly Chicken Finger Friday, where the house lunch is open to the campus, and styrofoam cups. You’d be surprised by which of those caused more grief; sororities love their styrofoam. It’s a girl’s best friend. If she’s making napalm. That may have been a pledge mission.
Will replaced the beloved Chef John, who cooked very regular meals and made a cheesecake that I actually died for, immediately before it brought me back to life. He also is a sculptor, and was in the process of creating a series of 300 tribal masks. I went to one of his art shows last year. There was cheesecake.
On Friday, one of the Kappa’s texted me, saying, “chief william has been fried!” My initial response was, that’s a hate crime. Then I realized he was neither a minority nor was he a victim, but someone who just didn’t make any desserts. NO DESSERTS! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I’VE BEEN THROUGH!
Chef John is contracted to return on December 1st. Until then, the campus food service Chartwells will be handling the cooking. Today there were chocolate chip cookies.

A Real Life Video Game Character

Until last week’s Halloween game against Eastern Michigan, I hadn’t attended an Arkansas football game in over a year. This is due in part to listlessness, in part to the small amount of homework that I put in the upper cabinets of free time, and in part because I simply forgot to buy tickets. I can’t force pledges to give me their ticket vouchers every week, can I? (I actually can, but the listless part of me always makes it seem like too much work to make them do so.)

However, I count my attendance at the Eastern Michigan game a miracle no degrees short of a dove descending from heaven and a loud voice saying, “Behold my servant Cass, on whose account I have mixed feelings.” Because that day, I saw Garrus Vakarian in person.
I’ve known Garrus for about two years now; we met initially during the first Pankration, when I played Mass Effect. I was playing it, he was in it. From there, we met off and on, mostly during holidays, when I would pick up saved games which were in the middle of exciting plot developments. Garrus and I would spend hours killing the dastardly robotic geth, hunting down mischievous mad scientists, and tracking the rogue spectre Sarren using our powers of deduction. We were a great team. Some nights, when it got really dark, I would forget that Garrus was a graphic summoned off of a storage disk, and think that, for the first time, I had met someone with whom I could share my hatred of robots.
At halftime during the Arkansas – Eastern Michigan game, with a score of rock to scissors (there was no way Eastern Michigan was getting out of that one, even if it was best two out of three), the Arkansas Alumni Association honored a group of graduates who had ventured out into the world and made their fortune. Among them was Brandon Keener, who they announced as an actor from Fort Smith. Intrigued, I went to the library (I don’t have the internet at my house; this way they’ll never find me) and Googled him. And God said, “Behold Brandon Keener, who voiced your best friend Garrus Vakarian in Mass Effect.”
Garrus Vakarian! I saw him, from a distance of around a hundred yards. Plus a significant elevation change. I invented the Pankration just to be with him. And he walked out of my life without me knowing it.
The whole situation reminded me of an ancient Greek myth. One day, Apollo was walking through the fields at Delphi when he heard the wind carrying a beautifully melody. He immediately fell in love with the voice an flew off in search of the singer, knowing that when he met her, he would make her his bride (or rape her and then she would bear his bastard offspring – this is how Greek myths actually worked). He flew over forests and mountains, past mortals and gods, in search of his beloved, who he could not find. Eventually, exhausted, he stopped in a grove of olive trees. There, washing clothes at the water’s edge, was a beautiful maiden. He asked her, “Do you know of a girl who sings a most beautiful melody? I am in love, and I will make her my bride/rape her and she will bear my bastard offspring.” She sheepishly looked away and said, “I know this girl.” Apollo asked, “Is she close by?” “Ay,” the maiden said, “she is here in this grove.” Then the maiden began to sing, and Apollo realized that Garrus Vakarian was his only true friend, and he was ashamed that he didn’t recognize Brandon Keener when the man was a hundred yards away from him.
Do not fear: Garrus has been announced as one of the characters in Mass Effect 2, out at the end of January. Announced. As if the video game designers could keep best friends apart.

I Would Have Gotten Away With It, If It Wasn’t For Daylight Savings Time!

Yesterday, my alarm went off at six forty five and I got dressed. I brushed my teeth, put in my contacts, and ate some ice cream. Then I drove to Rick’s Bakery, to meet with a couple tenth graders that I mentor.

When I arrived, not only did I realize that there was no one in the Rick’s parking lot, or that Rick’s itself was locked, but that the sky was uncharacteristically pitch black for seven in the morning. As I sat in my car, I tried to rationalize this with the explanation of Daylight Savings Time, but I’m still not exactly sure how that works (I know I’m supposed to move my clock, but the past two years I’ve put it under my bed and it’s done nothing). It may have taken sixty long seconds for me to look at my phone and realize it was actually five in the morning.

For Christmas my senior year of high school, my parents bought me a semester spanning series of sessions with a personal trainer. Worst Christmas present ever, outside of the Batman shirt our foreign exchange student’s parents sent me in the sixth grade. At the time, I was considering collegiate football, and so it made sense to train. But not like that. Not like that.

My trainer was Jessica, the only woman ever to throw the shot put and discus in the same Olympics. She would laugh when I threw up, and the only conversation we ever ventured into outside of weight lifting was Gatorade flavors. I hated going there. Our sessions were at five in the morning, but I was so conflicted about attending that some mornings, I would wake up in a daze, dress, and drive to the Fayetteville Atheletic Club, only to realize it was three o’clock. Then I’d drive home, get back in bed with my shoes on and watch the clock travel from three to five.

At that time in the morning, reactions are sluggish enough that the obvious signs that it is not the time you think it is are hard to catch, like your favorite morning show isn’t playing, or your car radio clock says three a.m. (mine actually said three a.m. yesterday. Like I said, I’m not exactly sure how Daylight Savings Time works). I think this may be what hangovers are like. You can stare at your hand for thirty seconds and not be able to tell if its the left or right hand of someone else, or yourself.

Save the Pankration!

I’ll admit – I have never posted about the Pankration before. I promise to explain it in full, but I’m assuming if you’re reading this blog, I’ve probably told you in person, so anything I write on this website I’ll just embellish. But that’s why you read it. Because when I write, I turn my brain off and write ridiculous things like this.

However, you must act quickly to save the Pankration from wikiocide! That’s right, I wasn’t thinking, I just turned my brain off and the word “wikiocide” came out. If you’re curious how I come up with posts, that’s a perfect example. Rechecking Wikipedia this morning to calm the fears which I had hoped were unfounded, fears that told me the article I wrote concerning the video game holiday I made up called the Pankrationhad been deleted, I found this:

“It has been proposed that this article be deleted because of the following concern:
Not notable. See WP:ONEDAY.”
My first reaction was elation. For someone to post this, that meant that they had to have actually read my article, and now they have knowledge of the Pankration. And knowledge of the Pankration is like a virus: once you have it, you can never fully get rid of it. You can only hide it, until it surfaces every ten years like syphilis and you are publicly shamed.
I followed the link to WP:ONEDAY (with the help of technology, you can too!) and I was so surprised by what I found that I killed a man by putting a butter knife up through his jaw all the way into his brain. Never sneak up on me again, Wikipedia.
“Wikipedia is not for things you or your friends made up. If you have invented something novel in your school, your garage, or the pub, but it has not yet become known to the rest of the world, please do not write about it on Wikipedia. Write about it on your own website or blog instead.”
First off, I cannot start a retort until pointing out the aristocratic insult that insinuates that I might have invented the Pankration in a school building, a garage, or a bar. The Pankration was born in my head like Athena, and spilled out of my ears like a rainbow waterfall in the land ruled by koala bears. It is not novel – it is revolutionary (but only if you’re playing a video game that involves you taking part in a revolution).
But listen closely, Wikipeedmypants, because I know you read my blog – just like you read my article on the video game holiday known as the Pankration. Wikipedia is only for things taht I or my friends have made up. Each word on that site has been made up by someone sitting at a keyboard, and each of those typists is someone’s friend (except you). I consider your website the only valid option for posting false information, stae secrets, and lies that I’ve had to stop telling children because they called me out on them. Furthermore, you don’t work for Wikipedia. You are not getting paid to delete my article. By deleting my article, you are only depriving millions of Eastern European children the chance to enjoy video games from sunset to sunrise. That’s millions of sunsets that you’ve just stolen. You are the main villian in the next dream that I have.
I will never give up! You may be able to delete my article on a holiday that I invented, but you cannot delete my soul, and that’s what counts. The only ones who can delete my soul are the Master Friends, who watch over the computer program that we’re all hooked up to that simulates life while simeltaneously using our brains as billions of organic computers that power their starship as it works to stop what we know as Alpha Centauri from going super nova and destroying the life force that binds the universe together.
Did you see what I did there? I just started typing, and I had no idea where I was going.