Today Mr. Splitfoot ruined my favorite shirt. It wasn't expensive or anything--I bought it for two dollars in some run-down shithole vintage shop in upstate New York--but I loved it nonetheless. It was a two-tone gold and yellow checked buttondown shortsleeve with a flared 70's collar.

At any rate, I washed it with a half-dozen other shirts, and put them all in the dryer. When I heard the dryer stop running I went down to the basement and saw my favorite shirt on the floor under a greasy leaking can of Penn State motor oil.

I don't know why Mr. Splitfoot does such things. Why would he pick that particular shirt unless he meant to torment me? Usually his activities are much more randomly annoying.