Alright, get this: every single time I try to carefully sneak around, some rascal somewhere just whips out his xylophone and gets right to it. Every single time. No sooner have I started diligently creeping my way down a hallway, with utmost caution and vigilance, when this pentatonic prick grabs his mallets and starts banging away.

Whomever this guy is, he needs to get something through his thick head: the whole freaking point of walking on tippy toes is to avoid calling attention to yourself. The last thing I want when I tippy toe around is some omniscient dumbass twiddling the highest octave on his instrument.

Maybe the guy is pandering to some voyeuristic audience. If that sort of big brother shit is going on, isn’t that seriously messed up? What right does he have to warp my sly, meticulously orchestrated plans into comical hyperbole for the sake of a sadistic crowd hungry for a slapstick cartoon?

If there is some sort of sick lot getting a rise from my antics, can they not vicariously share the suspense, as I quietly sneak by my mousey nemesis, or prepare to catch him offguard? Why humor the malevolent percussionist? That schmuck at the xylophone turns my every move into a complete farce. It’s humiliating.

Oh yeah! And his bandmate seriously needs to stop mashing piano keys when I lose my balance and tumble down flights of stairs. If he could do that, it would be absolutely grand.

I swear, if I find these two I’m going to try and whack them with my ridiculously oversized mallet, which I somehow always have.

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