Dear Diary,

It's been a few days since I ventured into the Tent Ghetto of Cow Town. I'm still "processing" my most recent experience there, when I discovered I could, indeed, shamelessly kill blue duck after blue duck.

When last we spoke, I had just entered the wonderful world of World of Warcraft, where you can't kill everyone and there's no vehicle stations. I'd found myself living life as an ugly cow, and I'd been tricked by another ugly cow into going out and killing a blue duck.

But one blue duck wasn't enough for ugly cow man. Oh, no. He wanted me to get seven feathers and seven chunks of meat, and that meant I had to kill eight or nine ducks, just leaving their bodies scattered over the verdant hills like so many chocolate chips scattered over a particularly scrumptious cookie.

What's giving me pause, Diary, is how easily I took to clubbing the ducks. I'd run around, chase after a mild-mannered duck, and beat it over the head until it squalked its last squalk. Then I'd steal from it. Strangely, one or two ducks seemed to be carrying very badly damaged cow armor, so I have to think these little beasts will eat anything, at least when they're not being stalked by a homicidal cow.

After my killing spree, I proudly went back to Fugly Ugly and reported my accomplishments and my crimes. Apparently, Fugly has little conscience (and even less fashion sense), because as my reward for fouling fowls, he gave me a rather unattractive belt.

And this, Diary, is where I'm convinced I've damaged myself (and probably everyone else around me) for life. You see, I figured out how to put on the belt. And then, I realized, twisted little dude that I apparently am, that I could take the belt off.

You could hear the light bulb turn on in my teensy little brain.

If I could put a belt on and take a belt off (no, I haven't exactly figured out why Fugly Ugly gave me the belt), then I might be able to take other things off. I could take off my Ugly Cow Robe, and I did. And I could take off my Ugly Cow Pants. And I did. And that left me, the Ugly Cow, walking around in nothing but what looked frighteningly like an Ugly Cow G-string.

And an Ugly Cow G-string on a butt-ugly, ugly-ass cow is not right! It's not right at all.

But it felt good. I somehow felt free. I pranced around in all my glorious bovine nakedhood and wound up meeting some old lady down by a well. It turns out Granny Fugly Cow is the big chief's grandmother. And apparently, Big Chief Fugly Himself is too lazy to get his ass down to the well and get some water from his very own Granny.