It is difficult to sustain my supremacy over Peevee. There is, unfortunately, quite a bit of... GODDESS. THREE FACES AND EIGHT... competition. The old English woman insists on calling her sister every Friday night, and that fellow from Istanbul has claimed the better part of Thursday. His taste in movies is atrocious.
I am sorry to say that I haven't quite got the hand of... BEHOLD the ELEPHANT... this sort of thing. Little snippets of Peevee's consciousness keep filtering through.
Nevertheless, I feel it is important to warn everyone that a little bit of my own consciousness has apparently taken over Che. Somehow, while I was a brain in a jar, I apparenlty worked out a kind of doomsday plan. It has to do with forming my own religion called Endology, creating Berets with electrodes that drill into the brain and turn the wearers into mindless zombies and also building an enormous rocket that will explode in the atmosphere and spread tiny nano-particle sized self-replicating robots all over the world. I'm not sure what the robots do but it can't be good.
Now I know I gave Father Tim the secret off-switch just-in-case. I think it was encrypted on the rainbow stole I gave him right before Samhain. Hopefully he still has it.