I woke up this morning and found that my bird wasn't in his cage. After searching nearly everywhere in my room, I came to only one conclusion: Pete has been kidnapped!

Quickly I gathered a search party, consisting of myself, a couple of guys on IRC, and a big bag of optimism (bag not included). We searched deep into the jungles of Malobanana, up the great snowy mountains, and even on Google. Sadly, no trace of little Pete was found.

Needless to say, we forwarded the case to the President, who responded with a very enthusiastic vow to find the poor missing bird. Unfortunately, he didn't have any more luck finding my bird than he did finding WMDs in Iraq. But he still killed hundreds of birds in the process, so it wasn't a complete waste.

By this time, our rations of optimism were nearly depleted. I returned home and looked sadly at the empty birdcage. Finally I decided to make one last attempt to find Pete: I turned on his favorite song, Learning To Live by Dream Theater. And suddenly I started hearing noises! ...from my speakers. There was music, but no bird squawks. There was no doubt left in my mind, Pete was dead.

So now, somewhere in my room, there is probably the rotting carcass of my once arch-nemesis Pete. I suppose I should try cleaning my room for once.

In honor of the great Pete, a.k.a. the Almighty Lord and Master of the Universe (Almu), I have written this poem:

His name was Pete. What can I say?
My buddy bird has died today.

He'd fly into to walls and stuff a lot,
But now his body is starting to rot.

The day I bought him, he was shipped
Unable to fly. His wings were clipped.

So I'd pick him up and hold him high,
And then let go. He couldn't fly.

He'd flap and flop onto the ground,
And then I'd have another round.

He liked the music that I'd play.
He sang the tunes every day.

Although he couldn't hit a note,
He'd get my American Idol vote.

I never shut his cage's door,
So he could leave and he could soar.

But, I truly must confeth,
That factor led him to his death.

Rest in peace, man.