Cool, we're doing personal stories now.
It was a night like any other, if I'm being honest. The sun cornures down the hall were squawking in a feeble attempt to drown out the Chopin that was being haphazardly played by Biff the Former Circus Chimp on my bronzed honky tonk. I had just finished painting the foyer a deeper shade of purple with lime green polkadots when I heard a rapping at my chamber door.
Upon releasing the fourth latch a curious creature, carefully nestled betwixt the ample busom of a lesser spotted Latvian lapdancer, sprung out with much glee and began bouncing through my foyer, past my half-finished bust of Winston Churchill bumming a ferret, and in to the confines of my custom built Screaming Room. It somehow managed to flip the thrice secured "Beast Mode" button which, naturally, made the record player start blasting out my personal showgaze cover of Baby It's Cold Outside, played entirely with recordings of me clipping Biff's toenails, at a hundred and fifty decibels.
The creature po-goed around the room like a hyperactive mountain goat for all of twenty seconds before collapsing under the weight of its own distain for my ceiling carving of Snow White selling the Dwarves to a travelling slaver so she could continue feeding her heroin addiction.
I'll never forget the words it said to me as I plumped it back between Kristine's boulder holders. It said "Pidgy, my man. I've always hated the fecking poor." I'll cherish those words until the day I get hit by a slow moving tram.