Yeah, you know me.

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From cenobyte:

Dirigibles. Just think of how lovely that word is. Dirigible. Something dirigy, what is also ible. These are the kinds of problems that present themselves to RastaChad on a regular basis. He is a dreamer, and he is curious. Like a monkey, but he smells much better (mostly). RastaChad emerged fully formed from the head of a lesser Manchurian God, somewhere in the seventh century. Not finding his surroundings sufficiently cosy, he holed himself up in a cave for a few months devising a virus that would cause the locals of the time, far behind in the advancement of their civilisation, to think about thinks in a different way. A virus that would cause them to question and to investigate. RastaChad has always felt somewhat bound, as if the forces that attract things to other things had simply too much of a hold on him; and so he learned the wonders of flannel pyjamas. With flannel, the body feels as if it floats above the sheets, while at the same time staying warm and comfortable and not in need of scratching. Because of a misunderstanding surrounding a flock of ducks and several chopsticks, RastaChad was forced to flee his cave, once again finding refuge in the corpse of a deceased Deity. RastaChad is amazed at most things, which is a wonderful way to be, indeed. He dearly wishes he could be an armour-plated giant lizard, but has had to settle for helping to shape the minds of the country’s youth. Only on a part-time basis; they may go back to watching “American Idol” when they are home. As anyone who meets RastaChad will tell you, he is always willing to lend a hand, foot, or other relatively inocuous appendage if one is in need. He would probably even offer to give you some of his hair, if you were cold. Or lonely. Or just a little strange.


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