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An Ode to Pants

Pants,
purple pants,
and green front, blue back,
all hanging on a rack.

Piles of pants,
more pants,
of various varieties,
all on the floor with so many holed knees.

Pants,
new pants,
as well as old, bedraggled jeans,
all with rather odd metallic sheens.

Pants,
limp pants,
or clean, freshly starched pant things,
all duct-taped to my ceilings.

Happy pants,
unusual pan


Nyon? Nyon?

Now, if you would kindly quit reading over my shoulder, Bob, I would not have to flay you alive!

I know you're there, I can hear you wimpering!
how?!
I'm an elf, dammit! Do not force me to get out my plastic spork of doom, you know the one.

Oh, you don't know the one? But then, you are Bob, so I can understand...

Please, quit twitching, you're making Emera pissy.
Its the spork that the leader of the dark side gave to

You don't know who the leader of the dark side is?
Then again, I don't know her name myself, but for now she is effectively out of commission.
She was the one who brought together the members of the council of those who bounce off the ceiling, the very same council that I created, which you are currently a part of.

Its the spork she gave to Niyarnia, High Wizard of Shara, to make more... useful. The wizard made it be... doom... hence the blue aura and the oozing green goo... and its truly doom, you see, because of the wondrous way it sucks the light out of the air around it...
Nifty, no?

I always have been aching to try it, you know, and the fear that you seem to be feeling right now, judging by the noises you're making, is quite reasonable.