Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.


Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").


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Like my brownhouse:
   Roll over Betoven
Saturday, May 17 2003
Hunting for moss and scarce topsoil in the woods near our house today, I stumbled upon a neglected burial ground. Lying on its back was a thin white wooden cross, not too different from the kind used to commemorate aborted foetuses at the so-called "field of blood" outside of Fishersville, Virginia back in the mid-90s. Written on it in crayon were the words

Here lies Betoven.

The cross also included the name of the family that used to live in our house. It's possible that the deceased being commemorated here was a human. More than a few Americans bring their stillborn foetuses home from the hospital so they can be groped by their luckier siblings. But the former residents of our house were not that kind of creepy. They were, however, somewhat negligent with their various pets. On one occasion they accidentally killed two of their dogs by leaving them for too long in a parked car on a hot summer day. Perhaps one of these dogs was named Betoven. I wonder how Betoven's immortal soul feels about Sally the dog and three cats usurping his former home? Perhaps he's spinning in his stony grave. Roll over Betoven!

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