So she writes. She creates the most simplistic,

So she writes. She creates the most simplistic, annoying, horrid stories, and for what? Oh, that's right, because she's bored. So she forces us to suffer with her by reading her st

ories in her raspy, mumbling, northwestern South Carolinian drawl, at a pace slow enough to keep up with an escargatoire of snails on a miserably hot July afternoon...nauseating.

She was nothing more than a miserable old drunken woman of ill-repute dressed up to be a school marm with her pasty thick rouge, dark red blistered nail polish, and orange lipstic

k, but sheush all I had to overcu cu cu ta excape my illiteracy an git outta Attapulgus. Sho I learnt tuh talk like a drunk school marm, but if yuse'll give me a cheyanse I sswayer

i ken taawk lyke ah normul perrsen. Suddenly, a mysterious black figure who looked suspiciously like a grammar nazi, strolled into the scene. He pointed the pistol straight at

my right hand. (i dont thikn teh grammer nazi knew i wuz achully LEFT handed) "POW!" the grammar nazi shouted. My right hand spontaneously disappeared. With my left hand I continu

-ed to log into FS, even though I got an error message. We're all rogue in here, now that the certificate has expired. But this rag-tag crew of typing heroes goes on, right-or-left

right-or-wrong, up-or-down, hodge-or-podge, our will to fold will not be deterred. "Certificates?! We don't need no stinking certificates where we're going." "Where's that, Pinky."

And that's why Brain went insane.