because boredom is the root of evil

jiminy trickett sat in a thicket played with his wicket (and no not at cricket), he wasn't the quickest cat to crawl from the bag but in the gypsy daisy sunmall everything was fine, the coquettes danced fiery circumambulant across sunglared vision speaking tokens of single simple unperversion. while he pondered away the daytoad's sprocket in came sonic youth upon a silver rocket and wondering at the mammoth distortion booming behind him he turned to find the kind the rind outside the person walking towards him, the person looking not too pleased to look upon that upon which he looked, and jiminy quick to dismantle blew out the candle: sent up a smile, pulled up his pile, retraced his mistake and gave forth no denial. alas by mischance, the person was not, that is he was not in the manner of being, but rather was by chemical miracle as chimerical as the nymphs, those aforementioned fairies, he was but a demon of disgrace and as such he was a fiction, and upon this analysis jim resumed his rediction, renewed his decision with new manumision, to attain to that place of such bounty and pleasure, granted to us by god's own measure, the dance recommenced and all were elated, to be freely that to which we are fated.

and go listen to longview by greenday.