THE NEFARIOUS DR. WILHELM SKREEM’S DISQUIETING DISCORDIAN

Bwah-ha-ha! Hear the wrath of the Nefarious Dr. Wilhelm Skreem! Smell my sinfulness! Taste my terrifyingness! See my… sinfulness! And touch nothing. You don’t know where it’s been. I’ve been to the depths of eternity and back, but I didn’t bring these things along. I did, however, perfect my latest and most menacing invention. The most insane instrument to ever maim music theory to shreds. The Discordian! Hear its fatal F-Sharp chord!

Well, you can’t hear it, but trust me, it is fatal. Fatal to relationships! That’s right, one squeeze of this dismal Discordian will ruin even the most blessed of unions. Til Discordian do us part! Bwah-ha-ha! And you can trust me this time; I’ve tested this evil instrument on the most perfect of previously perfect couples. Naturally, my first test case had to be special. Not just any George and Martha Washingwhozits from Anyplace, British Columbia. It had to be someone whose love had lifted them up where they belonged, a love that meant never having to say you’re sorry, a love that knows what love is. So, I decided to look up my birth parents. I knew they were bound together by a mutual hatred of me, and I had to burst that love bubble like the nefarious needle I am.

With the arsenical assistance of my Discordian to persuade the orphanage to provide me with my parent’s names, I sussed their names out like a suffraging Dr. Suss. My parents, Kirk and Lois Skreem, lived in a modest two-bedroom brick house in Beaverton, Wisconsin. It was sickeningly, sitcomily sweet. I snuck to the hedges fronting the lawn and waited until dark. When they pulled up in their barf-inducing Buick LeSabre, I burst onto the driveway, shouting, “Mr. and Mrs. Skreem, it’s your son, Wilhelm!” I squangrily squoze the Discordian as their shouts of surprise at my entrance turned to shouts of anger at each other. Within moments, their entire wedded life had shattered like the bottle of wine my father had dropped when I jumped out. Bwah-ha-ha! Success!

But success came with sinister strings attached. My parents, now newly divorced, decided to punish me by incorporating me into their lives. So, now I am forced to go shoe shopping with my Mom every weekend and spend my Tuesday nights eating dinner with my Dad. Frozen waffles so overcooked you need to stab them repeatedly with your fork to get a barely edible bite. Bacon, underdone. Orange juice. And sadness. Second and third helpings of sadness. But the Discordian works, so bwah-ha-ha, I guess. Anyway, begone.

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