Great Microbeasts, courier of thoughts into the Digital Realm, you continue to grant me your favor. Together we have banished many evils from this other world. Together we defeated Zeus. Together we helped bring rulers of both the Helghan and the Mishima Empire to justice. Together we reunited a young man, however briefly, with his long lost father in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. You and I are one. O Microbeasts, I beseech you to come forth into this realm and make arthritic the tiny hands that created the Playstation 3 Dual Shock controller which malfunctioned in the middle of my Indy 500 run in Gran Turismo 5. May their hands fumble with the tiny screws, may they be unsteady in soldering the delicate red and black wire connections to the rumble motors that were so quick to snap. May they be unable to secure the small sponge bar that cushions the contacts. May the rubber nubs that act as springs slip out of place as they try to assemble the well-engineered-if-you-didn’t-have-to-open-it controller. Most of all, O Microbeasts, courier of my thoughts, send them this message: To the worst offenders, whoever designed the way the trigger buttons are seated — R1, R2, L1 and 2…F U. May all that they build in their lives fall apart at the final step causing them to start over again and again. May they recognize this Sisyphus-like predicament and opt instead to die as Lord Kratos died, unleashing hope unto mankind.

O Thirteenth Demon of Mt. Azkey, designated delimiter of knowledge, he whom we seek for the swift and safe return of all carriages, I humbly call upon thee. Hear this humble encantation made by your data-parsing servant. Bring swift justice to those who deliberately hit the enter key within a data table and thus insert carriage returns where there should be none. Punish them for favoring aesthetics over structure. Slice off their fingers one at a time until they can no longer hit the “Enter” key accurately with their bloody palms. Then slice their hands off at the wrist and force them to look at the disgusting stumps where hands once were. May they realize through the broken and scattered pieces of their hands and fingers before them the tragedy of the broken and scattered pieces of data they have chosen to create. Let them know that The Thirteenth Demon of Mt. Azkey’s symbol should not be used in vain.

All you cursed nomadic souls unjustly damned to roam the earth for eternity,
focus all your bitterness and rage unto my silent song of sorrow.  May your
weary feet receive momentary rest as you help me bind and fulfill this
sacred curse upon Blythe.  May that wretched city find itself in isolation,
so far away from civilization that it finds itself many years behind in
technology and culture.  May its population be enslaved by undeserving
wanderers whose only memories of Blythe involve sustenance, fuel, and
relieving themselves upon its god-forsaken ground.  May it be the gathering
place of the worst in every race, religion, and culture.  May it forever be
despised, visited begrudgingly, and left behind gladly.  O wise nomadic
souls, make true this sacred curse.  Oh wait…nevermind.

Scribes of Hell whose very whims control the fate of evil mortals, you are most vicious and unjust.  By your hands, you creatively and indiscriminately prescribe punishment upon the living.  From your grey hearts, you pour forth no sympathy upon mankind.  I seek your diabolical aid through this incantation.  Scribes of Hell, I beseech you to listen to my plea.  I ultimately wish absolute ruin upon pencil thieves — those petty practicioners of pilfering who claimed my silver Pilot Dr. Grip mechanical pencil as their own.  May its .5 lead break at each word they write, and may they misspell countless words without an eraser in sight.  May their hands be so crippled that they can no longer feel with their fingers, let alone grasp a writing implement.  May its use frustrate the thieves so tremendously that they stab out their hearts with the very pencil they had stolen.  Only then can I claim victory against those who stole my beloved silver pencil.

Lord Abigor, commander of the Legions of Hell, Master of War and keeper of secrets that lead to victory, be glorified by the beating of the battle drums.  I honor you by offering all my anger and my hatred.  Augment the wrath of your army with my rage.  Lead a destructive onslaught upon the arrogant overachieving sons of bitches that constantly shatter my fragile self image.  May they find their lives hollow and incomplete.  May they suffer eventful lives attaining everything but the things they long for.  May they die lonely and forgotten in a flood of their own tears.

O Demon Scribe, devoted listener and ally in rage, the legions of the evil dead sing unholy hymns in your honor.  Protector of records and desecrator of fate, your horrid presence I beseech as I request a curse upon a broken DVD Burner.  As it reads and burns no more, may it forever find torment in the fires of hell.  May its once functional LED be used to drive mad the souls seeking comfort in enternal slumber.  May it forever be haunted by the zeros and ones it formerly read and wrote, and may its CD tray be forever empty like the afterlife of the eternally damned.  By your power, I place this curse upon this dead DVD Burner — may it suffer forever for the inconvenience it has caused.