Happy Chirping Penguins. As fine-looking as French waiters in their spiffy bow ties. Look at me! Look at me! Watch us la la la dee dee toodle doo on our kazoos! Aren't we so special, a true angel choir, humming nonsensical robot sounds as one bratwurst wails for us all.

What's that you say? Everyone in the audience is nodding off as we disguise classic songs?

Even as we make them sound somehow more ancient?

Preposterous, now watch us whistle.

This is Chorus. Yearlong semester course my sister sold her soul too after Satan used it as his tissue. Thank you, Melissa, thank you for that.

Thank you Mrs. Chrepsley, my dear honeycomb guidance counselor for leaving me with only two options.

Thank you Ned Barkley for stalking me like Gary the Snail after the cookie in Patrick's pants after I tutored you in World History last year.

Thank you to Mrs. Barkley for insisting that your squishy-brained son is too fragile for anything but Study Hall, and thank you Study Hall for only existing in a single room.

And now, last and least in all ways, thank you 5th period Chorus class for welcoming me so graciously into your room, especially for dragging me in even as I clung so passionately to the doorframe by my jaw. Yet, now that I'm here, I realize I regret submitting my elective requests late a thousand times more, rather than the original hundred.

Oh mister conductor? Be a dear and please impale me with your swingy, magic wand.