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This is what our music is about

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Ravuya

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I didn't get any work done last night, but I did finish the internship report.

So instead of a work report, what I'm going to do instead is give you all an interesting lecture about life.

In 1976, I was working as a delivery boy for a large Chinese restaurant in town, and I had yet to really notice my strange powers. One night, while driving my clapped-out Pinto across state lines to transport "egg rolls," I came across a young woman and her no doubt illegitimate baby daughter. I rolled down the window and said hello.

It turns out the young woman was actually an algorithm for hardware-accelerated raytracing, and so I started to drive away, fearing for her safety in a world of rasterization gone wrong. That's when I saw Mel Gibson.

In those days, Mel Gibson always drove a jet-black 18-wheeler loaded to the brim with high explosive and studded with blood-stained spikes. Those of you who have read previous completely disjointed rants that I have posted to Internet forums of ill repute will understand my long-standing rivalry with Mel Gibson. This is where that rivalry began. He blew past me going a buck-eighty, the wind screaming from where the hood of his Peterbilt split it in twain.

As I goosed the throttle, spurring my adorable domestic four-banger up to ludicrous speed, I glared at his rearview mirror, hoping he would see me and engage me in a drag race. He did not, and I swore to myself that my time would come.

Later that year, I became an elevator repair technician, and used my strange powers of logic and deduction to rig up each elevator to work in an exact replica of those in my favourite television show at the time, Donny & Marie. Ignoring the fact that that television show didn't have any elevators, my employers were significantly impressed and gave me a commendation and the key to the city.

I later used that key to the city to gain illicit access to the apartments of lounge singers whom I fancied, using their toothbrushes and mouthwash, and then escaping into the street. I had several close calls when I picked the wrong apartments, as during the 70s it was only legal to break and enter the homes of lounge singers, unlike today where it is fully legal to break into the homes of anyone considered non-human by the state.

The moral of the story is that you should always be careful to check your blind spot before changing lanes. Also, always use your turn signal.
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Quote:
Original post by Ravuya
Also, always use your turn signal.


Unless you happen to intend to continue driving straight, in which case it is a matter for your own discretion.

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Hum.. I took a different moral away from this story. If you're going to be a lounge singer, make sure to keep your toothbrush concealed on your person at all times. Yikes!

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