No, ladies and gentlemen. I'm not talking about the angelic horns that could tote should the biblical apocalypse happen.
I'm talking about... the vuvuzela.
Virtually unknown until last year's FIFA World Cup, this rather annoying instrument has been the bane of healthy eardrums and fun-bashers alike.
For those of you who lack a Facebook (or don't have me as a friend), I'm only going to say this once:
I ordered a vuvuzela.
More importantly, since nobody wanted to get me a vuvuzela, I'm going to initiate my "vuvuzela drive-by" policy now on anyone and everyone.
What's the policy, you ask?
Simple: I get a sadistic driver to drive my equally-sadistic self around the area (in particular: friends' houses) and wait to see someone I know.
I then blare the vuvuzela to the point where the person in question wants to physically tackle the car I'm in in a vain attempt to stop my blaring.
At that point, we drive off only to cause more havoc at someone else's place of residence.
Doom will now be heralded in the city streets once the box arrives... so to my friends who are still in the vicinity: when you hear maniacal laughter akin to a crazed psychopath with a book listing a bunch of dead people, RUN. (Unless you're some kind of crazy person who wants to join in my antics.)
(Author's Note: This message is brought to you in part by people who wish not to harm you with a vuvuzela. YET.)
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