I hope y'all watched the Oscars a couple weeks or so ago, because Beyonce mercilessly butchered "Learn to Be Lonely". The meeting to bludgeon her and every single person who ever worked on/acted in/hell, saw and liked the Aviator to death is on Saturday.

Yes, I watch Monty Python. I'm quite fond of it. And I'm glad y'all like RaoulXDollar. I'm sure they'll have some adorable foppish…paper…um…currency babies. Foppish paper currency babies. Feel free to wonder whether the dollar or Raoul will bear the children.

Hey, have the insane Tobey fangirls from the Spider-Man section followed me here or something? Really, MJ's not THAT bad.

I claim no responsibility for the comedy sheep. Go talk to Cleolinda.

In other news, randomness will be cut down to make room for more scathing wit and observations on phanfics in general. I would apologize for the long absence, but I don't want to.

It was morning. Typically, Erik did not like mornings because they interrupted his all-night jam sessions with the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come and the Angel of Death, but this morning was special.

For this morning, he had finished his rock opera.

There was only one way to celebrate this joyous event. He pushed away a bunch of the papers that covered his organ, and found a CD. He then inserted this CD into his radio (never mind that CDs and radios didn't exist until sometime in the 90s and not 1870), and turned the volume up to the last option, which read "OMG ELEVEN!111!11!5!".

The Opera Populaire was awakened this morning to the sounds of Gackt's "Vanilla" and its crazy brass backup.

Somewhere, a Japanese tourist who heard the lyrics screamed and died.

"Meg!"

Meg looked up in a hurry. Damn these original scene transitions, they always caught her off-guard.

"Meg, WHERE are all of the other ballet ra – er, dancers?" Madame Giry asked her daughter peevishly. Meg looked around, and noticed that the stage was completely devoid of squealing dancers dressed in droopy tulle tutus. This, Meg said inwardly, explained her lack of a searing headache and murderous glazed look.

"Um…I dunno. I guess Torgo and his not-at-all-sexually-named Master kidnapped them all and are now hoarding them all in Box Four which has a previously unmentioned secret tunnel that leads to an also previously unmentioned dungeon directly next to Erik's Dungeon O' Love." Meg finished lamely.

"How do you know his name?" Madame Giry asked, shocked.

"Mother, it's really freaking hard not to. Christine only shrieks his name every bloody night in rapture. You can't SLEEP here anymore," she said, annoyed. The mere thought of it infuriated poor, sleepless Meg.

"Well, anyways. We can't put on Phantom of The Rock Opera or the Phantom's rock opera without them," she said.

(Vega would just like to say that she has reached the bit on the movie CD where Erik and Christine kiss. We now return you to your regularly scheduled drivel.)

"Wait, which is which? Which one has the comedy sheep?"

"Il Muto."

"No, the one we were just doing the other day."

"Oh, The Phantom of The Rock Opera. Or…erm…maybe it was the Phantom's rock opera. I don't know. Don't ask such difficult questions."

Meg groaned.

"At any rate, would you mind fetching the dancers for me? We really can't put off the storyline any longer." Madame Giry said. Meg groaned again, realizing she had no choice but to do so.

Well, if she suffered then so did everybody else.

"Fine." Meg staggered off, knowing exactly where she was going. She wandered down to the dressing room, reaching a large door that had a star plastered on it. There was evidence of a small plaque underneath the star, as if the door decorator had no time to remove the name plaque.

Meg opened the door and went to the mirror in the back of the room. The mirror had a small Post-It on it, which read "When the rafters are a'rockin', don't come a'knockin," on it in disjointed, red handwriting. Meg found this note to be trite and meaningless, as the rafters had been rocking since Christine returned from her extraordinarily short stay with Raoul.

She passed through the mirror and walked down the slimy corridors. Meg wondered why the hell Christine never noticed the giant candelabras on the other side before meeting her Angel of Sex/Music. Christine was dense, but not that dense.

After completing the arduous trek through the Corridors of Icky, Meg poled herself across the lake to find Erik and Christine going at it again. Meg threw a stone at them, and they quickly sat up, looking extremely embarrassed.

"Christ, is that all you ever do?" Meg asked.

"No!" Christine said defensively. "Sometimes we make out, and sometimes we sing of inappropriate things and sometimes we stare into each others eyes, and sometimes we play table tennis!"

"And one time we went on a murderous rampage throughout L.A." Erik chimed in.

"No dear, that was that couple in the newspaper. Tom and Bellatrix."

"Oh."

Harry Potter fanfic readers quaked in fear at the prospect of a VoldyxBellatrix American now-days fic.

"Listen you guys, my mother's making me go get the ballet dancers from the clutches of a creepy cult weirdo who has weird facial hair and Torgo. And you're going to help."

"Might I help?" Binky asked, waddling in. He seemed to have finished Les Miserables, for he looked significantly more haggard and glazed than his last appearance back in Chapter Three or so.

Well, Meg thought, you're not being ignored anymore.

Meanwhile, the author typed furiously, having forgotten that a few people actually wanted her to update. As she typed, she remembered the afternoon yesterday…it was during math class…they had a substitute teacher who looked oddly like –

Vega cackled hysterically. Oh yes, this was a wonderful idea. No better way than to drive them all mad. She saved her progress on the current chapter, and immediately started a new one.

Being a mad scientist/writer was fun.

After this, she would go watch her beaten up VHS tape of the last two episodes of Mad Mad House. Mmm, vampires.