In the Year of the Mezcal, a prophecy was fulfilled. Don Gusano de Azúcar sired a critter the likes of which the world had never seen. This mahdi could not dispense honey, milk, orange juice, or ghee from his fingers. In point of fact, he had no fingers. What he had was the burning desire to liberate his brethren from the iron yoke of the She-Beast.

He set up a vast terrorist network, the likes of which the world had seen many times over, for it was basically just a phone tree, a couple of code phrases, and a bunch of dullards. Then, having forged his legacy, he perished, suffering a series of strokes brought on by being forced to watch an episode of “Full House”.

His minions bided their time until the coming of the Summer Solstice, and though they did not know how to say it in Portuguese, they eagerly sprang into action.

With daring and finesse, they commandeered an IP phone.

After 45 minutes of trying to add value, they failed to bring it to the table, since one major oversight was that they lacked any capacity to generate speech. « Hélas ! » cried the one that wasn't translucent at all, and he did so silently.

Cleverly devising a backup strategem, they rushed to a computer to send some emails. Unfortunately, Outlook crashed on them six times, and then they were, like, totally diverted by a fascinating exchange between two guys named BJ and William. By the time they managed. To send their first email. Which they typed like this. Because the little guy on the period key. Had a tick. It was too late.

Oh, you poor, foolish things! If only you had used free software, she wouldn't be giving you oral herpes right now.