Rube Goldberg Machine

There is a little devil on my shoulder that says there are only about fifty things you can say about Paris Hilton to praise or defame her or fabricate news about her, but the bright beacon of hope shines out of the top of Ron Paul's head into the sky where it is reflected from a broken mirror and scattered in all directions and received by the myriad broadcast of the YouTube fields, where Galilea Montijo roams free with Melinda Doolittle in a futurescape of possibilities and dead dreams brought back to life by the dread mania of a ghoulish fantasy. A fantasy is the song Michael Buble desires and he is drawn in over the MySpace swamp of disaster, which awakened cries in agony Where now is the Jerry Falwell, where now the American Idol we revered?