So, there I was, polishing my unicorn figurine (eternally outclassed by a blender, if you ask me), when the doorbell rang. Now, who on Earth visits at this hour? I pondered as if the answer required a PhD in relative absence. Maybe someone promising life-altering revelations? More likely, they were just lost.
"Hello! Is anyone home?" bellowed a voice that could only be matched to an opera singer in full climax. Before I could say "Can you lower that decibel?", they burst in, the door practically begging for privacy freedom. "I got your telegram about the xtravaganza!" they proclaimed dramatically dropping an encrypted time bomb of confusion. Little did they know, I don't own telegrams—each missed carrier pigeon a personal letter of disgust!
They're holding a rubber chicken in mid-performance, absolutely at odds with reality, belting out culinary disasters turned sketch comedies. By dessert, the chicken serenade aired live on failing Wi-Fi. Would they even claim my unicorn belonged to the blender's cousin? The legends shall remain tangled in unravelable VHS tapes.
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