Floating high above the world upon a cloud lived a.. uh.. I have no idea what that is. But the butterflies were down, and they all hung out, cracked beers, told jokes and hit on cocktail waitresses. It was good times. Then crazy holy owl eyed, holy gauntlet indian cloud surfer got totally wrecked and decided, hey, I'm totally a Goddess, and I should really go down and steamroll some heretic asses with the realness. The butterflies all agreed, busted out their switch blades, slicked back their hair, and popped on the leather jackets, ready to bring this s**t like John Travolta, only without the gay singing. (I mean seriously? Summer lovin? what the hell..) So they came upon some village and the dude's there were like into not partying and being serious all the time. She drifted in on her clouds blasting some Garth Brooks, only the metal version that Dio never got around to making, and commanded that they stop their bullshit work, and frowning and line up the shots cause it's power hour up in this mother! To which the humble people said something like.. what the hell is that thing? what happened next is unknown to history, but spears were brought, arrows happened, and butterflies busted out some sick a** 60's style a** beating. Owlindiancloudthing rained down some killer hail, and zapped those metal clad peasants with some lightning, and then tornado's happened and Bill Paxton was like.. Dude it's the thumb of god, game over man! Game over! (and he was trying to nail Helen Hunt which... wtf??) When the clouds broke and the night was over, the entire village was destroyed and all that was left was some stubbed out cigarette butts, several empty bottles of 151, a goat, and a discarded leather jacket.