As some of you folks know, my computer went haywire a while back and I was unable to log onto this site to post any edits or insightful commentary on Danny Glover, Toilets, and South Africa. Now, most people would probably just move on after getting their computer fixed and post something saying “KK, Comp. Fixed, LOL”, but, being 70% Scottish*, my blood requires me to tell a masterful tale of what occurred like the old war hymns of Scotland (See: The Full Monty). Thus, I now post my story here, upon this blog, before I forget about it as I am apt to do (just like my Great Uncle’s heart medication), while the story is still fresh in my mind and not cold and rotten (like my Great Uncle after he had that heart attack).

  • My full ancestry is 70% Scottish, 15% Dutch, 10% British, 3% Russian, 2% Germanic, and about 1000% GOD.

In the small house on the end of the road which no-one visited in Toledo, Ohio (we got a great deal on it from some guy who moved to Innsmouth), I sat typing furiously on my computer, the sheer magnificence of my animus ebbing on to the computer, with prose so idyllic and yet eldritch it would tear the heavens asunder. Just as I added the last punctuation mark on the statement Sry, Me 2 Friend Only :( my screen suddenly went dark. Of course, being a rational person, I began screaming and tossing the computer around, eventually collapsing into a fetal position, from which I did not emerge from for several hours. Finally, wiping the mascara from my eyes (I TOLD YOU, YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO JUDGE) , I worked my way downstairs, cradling my computer in my arms like a child (I may have, in fact, suckled it, I really can’t remember), walking towards a man holding a gun in his lap and some whiskey in his hand.

“DAAAAAAAAAAAAD, the computer is busted… What should I do?”

The man eyed me, looking haggard and weary, before responding,

“Goddammit, I told you, I am not your damn father! I don’t know who you are! You broke into my house two monthes ago and have refused to leave!”

I shook my head and chuckled. His advice was sound but basic, so I retorted,

“Yes, of course I already tried that Dad, I’m not stupid, but the computer won’t start!”

The man, clearly feeling ashamed for suggesting I didn’t know what to do, finished his whiskey and began loading his revolver with bullets. Bullets of shame. And lead.

“You ruined my life! You made my wife think I was crazy when I told her you were here… She left me and took my son with her… I tried to get you arrested but the cops couldn’t find any trace of you on the premises! I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW YOU DID THAT.”

He finished loading the revolver, then slapped the wheel into position and placed his thumb on the gun’s hammer.

“Then I sent that detective up into the attic… And he disappeared!!! I tried everything, but you won’t leave, and now the divorce will take away everything I have and I’m wanted for murder! I just want to know why you did it, why? WHY!?”

He began sobbing uncontrollably, placing his head in his hands, the gun’s side rubbing against his temple. I walked towards him and placed my hand on his shoulder, clasping it lightly. He looked at me, tears streaming down his face, a look of desperate curiosity readily apparent. I smiled and said,

“You’re right! I should ask the hobo who lives behind the house what to do, he knows everything!”

I began moving away, cheerfully, towards the back door, the man staring in shocked silence. A look of reconciliation slowly appeared on his face as he raised the gun to his head, pulling the hammer back. I skipped along, out the door of the house, the only sounds being my merry whistling and the sudden gunshot I heard behind me accompanied by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. A nice, normal day.

Long story short, the hobo apparently was too drunk on toilet-wine to impart any of his wisdom unto me, so I ended up taking my computer to a specialist who managed to fix it. So, that was the good news. The bad news is that, for certain reasons, I need a new home, so post your address below if you’d be okay with me staying over. Or don’t. I’m sure I can find your house anyway, and we can be the best of friends. The best of friends… --Haegemonia(talk) 15:47, November 11, 2009 (UTC)

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