"Whoa. Guys, my toenails have, like, feelings,"

"Whoa. Guys, my toenails have, like, feelings," Chad surmised. I rolled my eyes. "Dammit Chad, you're the worst smoking buddy ever. Can I please listen to 2112 in peace this time?"

"But Guy's, my toenails say they want to be painted pretty colors!" . Weed made homophobic Chad get in touch with his feminine side. Unsuspecting, we decided to video tape him

but had forgotten to bring a camera. Instead what we had was an Iphone, but the battery was dead. So we decided to write down the events, but no one had a pen. That left us with

Photomem Fiona and Homeric Hogan. Luckily, Chemical Steve had a truth-serum mister in his vest. We gathered a crowd, Hogan tackled the evildoers, and we made them talk.

And though it wasn't possible for them to lie, we couldn't believe what we heard. They were ranting about schizofrenic machines, mutated ostriches, bloodsucking sirens... Steve mad

followed by visions of gigantic pink elephants rampaging to the tune of the William Tell Overture. Some distant corner of his brain he knew he was slipping into madness, but

he didn't mind. He wondered why he'd never slipped into madness before - certainly it was more pleasant than nose-diving into boredom or diving into obnoxiousness, both of which

had gotten him into trouble with the law. Insanity couldn't be much worse than that, now could it? Actually, he thought with a sigh. Yes, it could. Much, much worse. Because

...because...he picked at the padding on the wall...because if he had just listened to the loudest voice in his head, none of this would have ever happened. "I told you so." AARGH!