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The Taradiddles of the Dream Cat

Here’s the story of a psycho Poppins, a druggy Rudolph, and a bloody Pollock.

Waking up in the morning feeling… rather shitty. Once sang that rapping lady about that rapping chap. Well, that’s about as up to date as I am with modern pop taradiddles. It used to be terrifying waking up each morn not knowing which part of me has fallen off over night, but now I awake with great eagerness to see just what has gone wrong. Why, in the last week, I’ve woken up to a mysterious scratch on my hand and a huge scratch on my chest, about five inches long. Neither was there the night before. I’ve also woken up with blood all over my cheek and a knee that felt like it was… not attached anymore. So I head to the bathroom, put on my Columbo hat, and try to figure out what’s happened. Except it’s more like Poirot and this is my final case but I’m so forgetful I end up discovering that me, Poirot, is the killer. Oh, I’m fine. I’m sure many, many people wake up, immediately collapse and drag themselves along the floor to the bathroom…

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