In Which a Bit of lorddimwit Is Captured From Chatter
* * * lorddimwit runs in, produces a small semi-automatic weapon, and unloads six rounds into the couch cushions  
lorddimwit> die, you fucker! die! DIE!!!!! AHAHAHAHAAA!!!  
lorddimwit> wait...  
lorddimwit> you're not Al Roker!!!  
* * * lorddimwit runs out again
He's no match for my army of blood-thirsty exotic birds!
Novelhead: Image hosted by  
Fly, my pretties, fly!