During one particularly exciting evening of discussion with my roommate, I was in the midst of concluding my greatest argument yet, twisting my roommate’s own words against him and sending him back - back flailing to the hideous void of ignorance from which he spurred; I could see it in his eyes that like dominoes, his carefully crafted premises led one after another to a disastrous contradiction from which he could not escape.

Crack! With the force of a thousand men, I waved my hand violently towards the heavens, locking in the final link in a series of complex, intertwined ideas that formed the foundation of my imminent victory. As a side effect of this majestic motion, I accidentally flung my laptop and the sizzling chili sauce that lay next to it across the room in a gracious arc towards the wall, the objects brimming with the enthusiasm I so excitedly expressed.

Seeking to use this unexpected turn of events to my advantage, my agile mind commanded my body to remove my left shoe and demand that is remedy the situation. I had my roommate in the palm of my hand!

“Oh shoe, oh holiest of shoes,” I pleaded in my poorest, most desperate Monty Python-like voice, “please fixith my computer, and the bits and little bits thereof, and clean the chili sauce from the motherboard, which now lays before me scattered in pieces like the sands spread by the four winds!”

Blast! To Hell with the devil! The shoe would not move!

“Damn thou, shoe,” I deplored it, “I have serveth thee well over these recent years; do me this mere favor, I command thee! Fixith the mess which I have spawned!”

But no, the shoe remained in original position, motionless, soundless. Had I a mouse, or a gerbil, at least it would have made a peep, or scuttled its small feet along the hard floor, but No! I was damned to the Hell of my shoe, a shoe of whose character I had mistaken.

“I damn thee to Hell, shoe, I damn thee!” I exclaimed in exasperation.

I sprang to the phone; I would call the legendary gurus of the magic system that transmits these very words – if they could command the magic of the machine itself, surely they could demand that the apparatus return itself to its original state – perhaps even demand the same of the chili sauce!

Fervent with unbridled enthusiasm – excited as a young man receiving his first night of passion, I called the magical wizards of lore to fix my machine, and perhaps upgrade my RAM with a single nod of the cranium. I constrained myself when one of them answered – a verbal error and I could be blasted into oblivion!

“You cannot fixith my machine? Why will you not command it to return to its original state? Electricity, not magic? Blast you! Blast you to Hell and Beyond!”

I slammed my oral communicator downwards with the energy of a woman scorned. The system administrators at my University were as competent as my left shoe! Blast! I kicked the shoe out the window.

Weeks later, my roommate has since come out of hiding, and upon intense questioning, quickly acknowledged the validity of my original arguments. Ha! I laughed a hearty laugh! I won once more! (If I catch him sneering behind my back, I will blast him to Oblivion to keep company to the awful shoe!) I continue to demand the use of his magic machine, as the chili sauce of weeks past must have been cursed, and the pieces of machine upon the floor still refuse to reassemble themselves.

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