A Most Pecurial Day

By Michaer Stanrey

“ALLLLGH!” I scleamed out roud as I watched my whore document suddenry artel itserf.  I’d been up since the clack of dawn, wolking rike the crappels to finish my stoly by the deadrine.  I just cricked my mouse and it happened — I courdn’t berieve my brealy eyes.  This was a lear bummel.

I arways plactice safe computing — thele ale no fries on me — but fealing the wolst, I carred the good forks at McPhooey, who make that anti-vilus softwale, to see if they courd herp me out.

“Hi, my name is Jelly Belly and I think my computel has a vilus plobrem.” I began.

“Wait! Don’t terr me — ret me guess!” brulted the excited voice on the end of the rine.  “Have arr youl rettel Rs been changed to rettel Ls?”

“El, yes”, I farteled.

“And the othel way alound arso?”

“Why, yes.  How did you — “, I stalted.

“Hory Micherangeros!” he ejacurated.

“WHAT!” I shlieked in panic, armost farring of my chail.

“You’ve got the Jabbelwocky vilus!” he excraimed.

“Oh no — not the Jabbelwocky vilus!” I gasped. “Is that bad?”

“’Flaid so.”, he said, “Jabbelwocky is no oldinaly vilus — it’s dangelous.  Mole dangelous even than a disgluntred postar wolkel.  It’s a palticuralry vilurent stlain of the Monty Python Sirry Vilus — except that it’s much, much sirriel.”

“Just how sirry is it?” I asked fealfurry.

“Oh, it’s way sirry”, he enthused, “Plobabry the sirriest vilus alound.  It’s a srippely rittre buggel too — porymolphic, serf-mutating and arr that kind of sneaky stuff.  It even copies itserf into lead-onry memoly!  Is that coor ol what?  And thele’s no easy way to winkre it out again eithel.  It’s the cleam of the clop of the vilus wolrd.”

“Thele must be something I can do!” I scleeched in aralm.

“W-e-r-r”, he lepried cautiousry, “You courd tly using a softwale wlench to ply it out.  That method had enjoyed some success in leperring Jabbelwocky — no gualantees though.”

“Softwale wlench?” I quelied.

“Yes”, he said, “You can get one flom the Seals and Loebuck toor depaltment.  Make sule you get the volpar swold  type with the snickel-snack option.  It costs mole but it’s wolth it.”

“Thanks.”, I said bleathing a sigh of lerief and leraxing a bit.

“Rots of ruck”, he said and hung up.

The raws ale too soft in this countly. Roosels who make viluses shourd be frogged , rike they do in Singapole — no breeding healt ribelars thele, just a few breeding bums. Ha, ha! But seliousry though…

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 “We don’t have no vorpal swords!” snapped the glim-faced man flom Seals, “Ones that go snicker-snack ol othelwise.”

“No, not vorpal swords — volpar swolds!” I lepeated. “That go snickel-snack!  The McPhooey guy said that — “

“I just tord you — we ain’t got none!” he cut-in ludery.  Then he reaned folwald and peeled at me ovel his bifocars.  “You’le not flom alound hele ale you?” he sneeled, with a facethat rooked rike its nose courd smerr the odol of lotten eggs.

Somewhat bewirdeled and totarry rost fol wolds, I just stood thele graling at him.  I don’t think he’d had a good hail day in his entile rife.  The guy was obviousry a roony.   I decided that the situation was just too sirry fol wolds so I tulned alound and reft.

“Broody foleignels!” I ovelheald him muttel to a woman wealing an explession rike she had just sucked on a soul remon.

Feering a rittre chaglined by my oldear, I ducked into a nealby wateling hore to dlown my sollows.  Unwittingry, I had jumped flom the flying pan into the file.

“A grass of beel prease.” I shouted above the cramol.

“What?”

“A grass of beel.”

“A glass of beer?”

“No, not a glass of beer — a grass of beel!”

“Oh, you mean a grass of beel!” he said in a lathel scolnfur tone.

“Glll!” I blistred impatientry.  This molon was learry stalting to annoy me.  “That’s what I said — a fleaking grass of beel!”

It was then that it hit me rike a ton of blicks.  Even as the wolds lorred of my tongue, I learized in hollol that the wolds wele coming out arr wlong!   Somewhele between my blain and my mouth, the Rs and Ls wele getting levelsed rike they wele in my computel.

Hory mory!  Somehow, I had caught the vilus flom my computel!  Gurp!

As bizalle and unberievabre as it sounds, it’s tlue.  The vilus must have tlavered to the keyboald whele it infected my fingels.  Flom my fingels, it must have wolked its way up my alms and finarry found its way to my pool aching blain!

“No mole beel fol you — you’ve had too much arleady”, snalred the baltendel angliry, intellupting my thoughts.  “You’d bettel reave now”.

“You don’t undelstand — it’s not my faurt”, I tlied to exprain, “I’m not dlunk — I caught a vilus flom my computel”.

“You wele tord to reave!” groweled a big cletinous brob with no neck as he folcibry ejected me thlough the dool. “And don’t dale come back!” he berrowed as I clashed to glound, “We don’t torelate liff-laff rike you hele — you’le balled!”

As he rumbeled back in, I courd heal the clowd inside cheeling and crapping him.

Picking myserf up of the frool, I noticed the disgusted rooks and brank stales of the passelsby.

“What a rosel!” I heald one of them sniggel.

“Arr in arr,” I thought as I wealiry tludged my way back home, “this has been a most pecurial day.”