The epic battle of the musical holiday clock took an ugly turn last night. Sometime between the hours of midnight and eight a.m., Hugh engineered the slaughter of the timepiece. While his hands might be clean of the actual assault, I have no doubt as to his guilt; he obviously hired the gang of misfits as contract killers.
Luckily, thanks to a little creative hot glue gunning and a wee bit of duct tape, I was able to salvage the clock. I will not let this transgression go unavenged; tonight, the clock is going under Hugh's side of the bed.
MMWWAAA,HA,HA,HA,HA
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