Pnårp’s July, 1999 squeaks & squawks
| Complicated because of July 4, 1999 |
| Abolished after July 11, 1999 |
| Nitrated on July 18, 1999 |
| Encapsulated within July 25, 1999 |
The flying pi returned
Complicated because of July 4, 1999
Tags: AK-47, death, dogs, pi, screaming stars, singing spiders, triangular briefcase.
The flying pi returned to my window this Tuesday! It was buzzing back and forth like a swarm of bees, tapping on my window, reciting its value, “Three point one four one five nine two six five…” I thought—knew—it would never quit reciting its endless, transcendental value. I fed the pi a pie, and it went away, but came back.
I remembered the triangular briefcase, the screaming stars, the splattered spiders that used to sing. The spiders that I had splattered all over the floor with the AK-47 Wednesday night. What a mess. A dog! A dog, a dog! Do you know how scared you made me!? The pi was pressed against the window, currently reciting its thousandth decimal place. It was no longer interesting. I thought it was hilarious, but it wouldn’t stop. I knew nothing, but I knew that pi was endless.
Da, da, da. Lalalala!! Somewhere, there’s an empty chair at a seminar. What about now? Stupid car commercials. I burped up a Ford, and keeled over, dead.
Top
Dead
Abolished after July 11, 1999
Tags: death.
I am still dead. There’s nothing to write about when one is dead.
Top
Is there an underdog in you?
Nitrated on July 18, 1999
Tags: death, dogs, screaming stars, sex, underdogs, Mister Wilson.
Is there an underdog in you? There is one in me; I ate one three days ago. It was a cocker spaniel. It wasn’t too happy that I had eaten it. It would’ve saved me a bundle to call it using 1-800-COLLECT, but I didn’t. Usenet, email and IRC made me try and screw myself.
No, no, no.
I started reading something written on a piece of used toilet paper I found in a public toilet at a local Mobil station. “Say something! What should I be writing!? Should I be writing something!? Does the dog know!? Does the cat know!? Do the screaming stars know?! Or the clouds!? Or my dead neighbor, Mr. Wilson!? Stop talking! Stop writing! I cannot think like this! …” It looked familiar. I had written it, back in April! I couldn’t believe it! Someone was using my writing as toilet paper!
I was mad now. Really mad. Happy that I had eaten an underdog, but mad about the toilet paper. (This, incidentally, caused one of the screaming stars to go supernova.) Why don’t you do something useful?? Surge is a fully loaded citrus soda. I eat citrus for breakfast. I also ate some strontium nitrate today. What an anaphylactic system. I went riding on an accretion disk from Russia. Simplicity for exclusivity’s sake. No more!!!
Top
Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg
Encapsulated within July 25, 1999
Tags: death, dogs, screaming stars, singing spiders, triangular briefcase, underdogs, Mister Ollanthorpe.
Unlike animals, people need a purpose in life. Yes, I encapsulated this for this week. Find out how it’s all going to end—tonight! Time for the bonus round! I shoved my triangular briefcase down the screaming stars’ throat. They didn’t like it, and screamed louder! A red-spotted dog agreed with them and started screaming, equally as annoying. I had to do something to stop them.
My good friend, Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg, from southern Moravia, came to help me stop the stars on Friday. But, alas, he could do nothing to prevent them from screaming. (It was a limited-time offer.) Then, something strange happened—Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg, from southern Moravia, told me that the whole thing was a figment of my imagination. How dare he! How could I possibly imagine something as annoying as seventy-three screaming stars; not to mention the now-dead singing spiders!!
Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg, from southern Moravia, is dead. I told him to leave my house. As he did, he was trampled by sixteen rabid underdogs, and died.
Top