Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Note: THIS IS SHORT! LIVE WITH IT!

Note: I was very, very angry at the computer because I kept asking me if I wanted to send some file called 'cookie' to some site. Finally, not being able to take it anymore, I consoled myself with the thought: how would certain characters act in similar situations? (this was after I stopped screaming, yelling, and pounding the computer to a pulp)

This was purely for my enjoyment, yes I mixed some recarnation stuff into it, I was caffinated when I wrote it, I don't like football very much, I think the world is obsessed with the Superbowl, I hope you like this, and the dang computer is STILL asking about cookie . . .

I hate 'cookie'.

I Hate Cookie.

"AAARGH!" Raistlin slammed his bony fist against theuncooperative computer, than rubbed his throbbing hand. " - computer." he muttered.

"Raist, you OK?" Caramon peaked his head around the door, his arms ladened with chips. It was, after all, Super Bowl weekend.

"The damn, damn, damn computer KEEPS asking me about wheather or not I'd like to send a damn, damn file called 'cookie' or whatever to a damn, damn site!"

"Whoa . . . that's a lot of damns." Caramon was very, very, very impressed.

"Die, cookie." muttered Raistlin, clicking the 'no' button on the last of the 7.3 million annoying little warning-pop-up-thingies, sighed as the computer actually decided to load the next site. Tapping his fingers on the keyboard, the teenager's pale blue eyes fixed on the white screen in impatient wait.

"Hey, Raist, ya wanna get off that computer and come watch the Superbowl with us?" Kit, dark curls peeking attractively around her face, asked, never once taking her eyes from the superbowl screen.

"Loading . . . loading . . . loading . . . " was all the irate thirteen-year-oldcared to reply.

"YAYYYY! Touchdown!" yelled Caramon, and he and Gilon, the twins' father, got up and cheered.

"The world's gone mad." Raistlin muttered, still with his eyes on the screen. "Load, will ya?" he muttered, snapping on headphones with one hand while the other adjusted the staticky cord that connected them to the silver C-D player, pressing 'play' in the meanwhile. (I do this a lot)

Once adjusted, Raistlin drew back his fist and banged again on the computer. "Load already!" he yelled in frustration.

As if it could hear the yell, the computer suddenly loaded.

"Wow . . . this thing actually loaded." Raistlin sat still, stunned with the sheer shock of it. That is, stunned with the sheer shock of it until the music came on full blast through the headphones, stabbing at Raistlin's ears.

"Aaaaaaaah!" Raistlin snatched the headphones off, rubbing his ears. "I've got to stop letting Dalamar use this thing." he muttered. The annoying eleven-year -old ark-haired kid that Raistlin tutored usually borrowed the headphones, tuning up the volume in the meanwhile.

After adjusting the volume and placing the headphones back on, Raistlin skimmed the site, trying his best to ignore the shouts from his football-crazed family in the other room. "Nothing . . . why am I not surprised?" the scrawny teen pressed a link.

Ah, once again to be faced with that damned white screen . . .

And that grey warning-pop-up-thingie that had become all too familiar.

"I hate cookie." muttered Raistlin, slugging the computer hopelessly.

It was going to be a long day.

Should Atled and myself do more of these?"

Note 3: this was written by Raablyn. Live with it.

Please review.