In response to RedShirt69, I’m a hot girl and I love nerds.

You say you’re into video games, I say, “Wow, I totally love them too!” If you’re into fantasy novels, that just shows we have a magical spark. Who doesn’t like role playing games?

I’m the ideal girlfriend for a nerd. I always watch SyFy original movies! Well, as long as I’m not busy that night. And there’s nothing better on TV. And I’ve had two or three glasses of wine.

The Westboro Baptist Church has gained a certain degree of notoriety for protesting both military and celebrity funerals. Their attempts at linking all deaths to God’s condemnation of America’s laxity towards sin have, unfortunately, become hackneyed. Their most typical signs read: God Hates Fags or Thank God for Dead Soldiers. What’s most shameful about these placards is not so much the vitriol of the sentiments, but rather the missed opportunity.

It was April when it began.

It might have started earlier, but that was when I noticed the first sign. I was chatting to my mother, the phone in one hand and a pen in the other. It was only when I hung up that I looked down and saw, in thin black strokes, that I’d absently drawn a round little banjo.

And that’s how it started.

When ghosts moved into my house, my first thought was live and let live. Actually, my first thought was, Great, here comes the dementia. My second thought was that I was the victim of some kind of perverted trick, played out by one of my friends. I hoped it was my perverted friend Bob, so I could flatten his nose so bad he’d only smell lip.

But no, these were definitely ghosts.

I’m sitting on the couch watching TV with the kids when the Party Action Party Packrat explodes out of the screen and into our living room.

The kids, of course, go absolutely wild.

“Hello friends!” says the Party Action Party Packrat. His name is Pizza Pete, and you never see it in print without a tm at the end.