Pnårp’s September, 1999 standard & poor

Without a tongue or a penis

Reticulated and sun-dried on September 5, 1999

Tags: penis.

Uh huh, they cut my tongue off on Monday. So I cut my penis off on Tuesday. Hmmm… I cannot write further, without a tongue or a penis, so I shall wait until next week when maybe I can find some new appendages.

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Someone accused me of screwing a pheasant

Remixed before September 12, 1999

Tags: Afghanistan, God, penis, pheasants, pi, screaming stars, sex, singing spiders, Mister Wilson.

The floating pi came by yesterday, riding in a polymorphous winged chariot, which I found to be quite inspiring. If floating mathematical irrationalities can own winged chariots, could I not at least find a new penis or tongue? First, I had to get out of the Afghanistani prison, of course.

That was not very difficult. I simply stole the floating pi’s winged chariot and rode past the guard as he was asleep, dreaming of stationary, non-floating pis. The pi was not happy, in fact, he was a pissed pi, and started clattering around in the cell in which I left him, which awoke the guard. The guard, after seeing the floating number… what? What, what? The television interrupted me. Someone accused me of screwing a pheasant. Mr. Wilson would have known.

I had escaped. The pi was in prison. If only I could somehow imprison the screaming stars. As I journeyed from Afghanistan to Prague, which I had heard was the happiest place on earth, home to even the stupidest dolts (and singing arachnids), they kept me company, screaming their lungs out from far above in the night sky.

Lord, help me.

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The Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg

Bleeped out for September 19, 1999

Tags: Alyssa Milano, Afghanistan, death, Englebee Troobles, screaming stars, Mister Ollanthorpe, Countess-Prelate.

The winged chariot broke this week. I had to put the horses down, too. It broke, and the horses all started meowing and howling like wolves. It was very unpleasant.

While wandering about Saudi Arabia on foot, nearly dead, but alive with life, a messenger brought me a letter from Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg’s widow, the Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg. I began reading, after killing the messenger:

Dear Mister Årp:

You are searching in the wrong place for the Englebee Troobles, for which my husband also sought. They are not in Europe, or in Asia. They are not in Afghanistan, or Prague, or Saudi Arabia, or Egypt, or Crete, or Lemnos, or Ithaka, or Macedonia, or Kosovo, or Smolensk. They are not even in Tashkurgan, or Mohenjo-Daro, or even ancient Çatal Höyük. They are not anywhere on this planet at all. You must look beyond this planet. Beyond, sir.

Far beyond. Travel to the stars, sir. That is why they have been screaming at you. They are beckoning to you. Calling to you. You must heed their call if you are to find the Englebee Troobles and put an end to your asinine search.

You are an ass. Die.

Sincerely,

Regina Maria-Theresia Louisa Ilsa Ollanthorpe

Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg

What…? To the stars? The screaming stars? What a melanderous idea!! I decided I must ask Alyssa Milano, or maybe the President of the United States, if this was a good idea. Maybe William Shakespeare would have the answer. I decided to go to England.

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A brass knob had fallen on my head

Belched out on September 26, 1999

Tags: Alyssa Milano, death, dogs, insect god, penis, pi.

Going to England was a waste of time. “USA Up All Night” now continues, on television. But I am in England. William Shakespeare is dead. I wondered who killed him, and why I couldn’t call Alyssa Milano using 1-800-CALL-ATT from England, but none of it mattered.

A brass knob had fallen on my head. “Let me call the super, and he will let us in.” I remembered that sentence from long ago. Then something else. Semper sic tyrannis. Why did I remember this? And why did I suddenly feel like a floating pi was watching me, as was my old neighbor and a small colorful bug named Iggy Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps.

I stepped on a dog’s tail Monday, which caused the dog to bite my penis off, so I cut my tongue off. A car sped by me, the driver screaming in Urdu, so I bit the dog back, and picked up some interesting British coffee for my long trip home.

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