It was Amish with the Flatulence in Goathead's Bedroom

Let me just . . . take the liberty of

INVITING YOU TO THE CLUE PARTY

hinted at in earlier postings.

This is a production of my girlfriend creatively, and of me and a bunch of ink and paper practically. And of the rest of my roommates, in allowing you to enter our home.

I will be going as Colonel Bastard, in a monocle and a safari jacket.

Weaponry includes, but is not limited to: a cursed typewriter, and alcohol poisoning.

Rooms include, but are not limited to: the shower room, and the Transformers Pavilion (these are real rooms in our house, I'm afraid—I gave up my room so that the Transformers might live).

The matter of how to transmutate dice rolls into actual walking through the house has yet to be determined.

Characters include, but are not limited to: myself, Spooky Wignall, Ms. Peacock, and Ms. White.

If you're without a character or costume, you may borrow the noble livery of a Pizza Hut Driver.

This business will happen Saturday night. Unless it doesn't happen, which seems at least equally as likely, if significant numbers of the party are 1) lured away by women, 2) lured away by bars, or 3) somehow physically unable to stop playing Halo.

And of course this will be a wet event.