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|This is the result of Rahah's typing a poem about pants, and then being too lazy to say what she's thinking and instead typing it. |
And also, these are the American pants. Trousers.
and green front, blue back,
all hanging on a rack.
of various varieties,
all on the floor with so many holed knees.
as well as old, bedraggled jeans,
all with rather odd metallic sheens.
or clean, freshly starched pant things,
all duct-taped to my ceilings.
NOW, IF YOU WOULD KINDLY QUIT READING OVER MY SHOULDER, BOB, I WOULD NOT HAVE TO FLAY YOU ALIVE!
I KNOW YOU'RE
THERE, I CAN HEAR YOU WIMPERING! HOW?! I'M AN ELF, DAMMIT!
DO NOT FORCE ME TO GET OUT MY PLASTIC SPORK OF DOOM, YOU KNOW THE ONE.
oh, you don't know the one? but then, you are Bob, so I can understand...
TWITCHING, YOU'RE MAKING EMERA PISSY.
its the spork that the leader of the dark side gave to
YOU DON'T KNOW
WHO THE LEADER OF THE DARK SIDE IS?
then again, I don't know her name myself, but for now she is effectively out of commission.
she was the one who brought together the members of the council of those who bounce off the ceiling, the very same council that I created, which you are currently a part of.
its the spork
she gave to Niyarnia, high wizard of Shara, to make more... useful.
the wizard made it be... doom... hence the blue aura and the oozing
green goo... and its truly doom, you see, because of the wondrous way
it sucks the light out of the air around it...
I always have been aching to try it, you know, and the fear that you seem to be feeling right now, judging by the noises you're making, is quite reasonable.
|Otherworld's Sausage: Chapters 1-2||Mirages|
|Wanted: Rahah Okeishu||Belief|