Huzzah!
Whirl, whirl, twist and twirl... jump around like a flying squirrel. You pull my beard, I'll pull your'n. Pick him up and hit 'im in the head. Hit 'im again, that critter ain't dead! Dang! (I mean, damn !) You learn the weirdest little songs living in the alley. With this heat, everybody's got their windows open, and the fragrant tendrils of sweet country music waft out into the night and accost your unprotected eardrums. Right now I'm hearing some kind of a twangy ho-down emanating from about three stories up. Probably high time I show my appreciation - Oy! Oy! Toin it down, duh radio! That's better. (At least I feel better about it - the freaking music is still there...) Yes, well... if you guessed that the alien-mayor Gizmandiar has succeeded thus far in keeping us out of our adopted home (squat house) the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, then you are indeed correct. Matt, John, Marvin (my personal robot assistant), Mitch Macaphee (Marvin's person...