The Secret Order of the Golden Llama

Rhymes With Pothole

Untitled Document

January 4, 2006

And so we begin a new year. What with the monkeys and tax returns and all your assorted deli meats, you'd feel safe in the 1950s. I'm not sure my head is clear at this point, and it's entirely possible that going from being chronically sleep deprived to getting 13.3 hours of sleep each night has doth broken something in my head, but what can you do? Just pick up the vacuum and sweep up the yard, and hope for a better day tomorrow. Them chickens aren't going to hatch all by themselves.

And so we say good-bye to 2005, and hello to 2006. Or for those of us who never remember what year it is anyways, join me in scratching me head (no, you scratch your own, I'll scratch mine), and wonder what the frick happened to 2007. Here I was all ready to live in the year of Bond, and have to settle for a year that only equals 8 if you add it all up, and not mega-coolness.

Now, off to achieve my goal of sleeping for 24 hours straight. I'm thinking it could be the secret to time travel.

By reading this you are now legally and mystically obligated to return at least once a week, lest your eyeballs melt and whatever
genitalia you possess fall off (or out, or... you know what, they'll just melt too). I reserve the right to lease your soul
and paint it any colour I wish.

Please don't steal from me. Unless it's for a good reason. The only good reason being
I've made your eyeballs melt and your genitals liquefy. And only then if the revenge is epic
in scope, and you promise to let me win.

Thank you, that is all