Now look at this keyboard here. It's connected

Now look at this keyboard here. It's connected to that reanimated dead body. A German village was destroyed when I played chopsticks.

My diabolical Necrocolliope played the music of the dead. The pipes would wail across the grave yard pulling corpses from their slumber. They really liked it when I played

before making a beeline for a table filled with mini hotdogs, cold meats and cupcakes. I decided to join a pan pipe and bagpipe marching band in Polynesia. My flight was

cancelled due to another Icelandic volcano and I had to kayak over to Polynesia, old-school. My right arm is twice as big as my left so I naturally headed East along with a pod of

edamame beans in each hand, because everyone knows how soy helps in the replenishment of depleted chakras. My third eye was speaking to me through my lama wool beanie, and I hiked

To the apartment building where I was living at the time. I lived on the third floor. Some four years later, I was the fool on the hill. Talk about a huge transition. I could sing

like those weird white kids that sang up in a tree over in the far corner behind the Community Center on Erie Street. One of those white kids was a Mexican without a knife wound.

They seemed to be watching me. Were they angels? No, as I came closer to the tree I saw the glint of teeth in their pale white child faces. "You have been chosen." "Um, I'll pass."

"In that case, please pass the tartar sauce. We have chosen to eat you," said the big one, their leader. "Eat this!" I said, punching him in the face and then running like Heck.