Pnårp’s April, 2005 wheeling & dealing

I was mad

Optimized for April 3, 2005

Tags: Carpathian Mountains, Chechnya, Englebee Troobles, screaming stars, singing spiders.

I saw three pie-eating skanks going on a rampage with a new three-button mouse as I returned to America from Chechnya. I stopped in Pakistan again, thinking that I might get to see another wonderful war. On the airplane, someone painted a skull and crossbones with the name “Fwappity-Do-Da” under it on the back of my seat, then the tray table.

I was mad.

When I returned to America, I found the first person named Fwappity-Do-Da (his full name was Charlie “Fwappity-Do-Da” Witherspoonworth IV) and murdered him. Then I dug myself a cone-shaped hole in a Sears parking lot and hid there until someone else confessed to the oliphant-forsaken murder. (What does this have to do with me? Where’re my JPEGs??)

I am resolved to never look for another Trooble for my entire life. The Englebee Troobles, the Canonical Troobles, the Sutherbee Troobles, not even a Carpathian Spotted Reticulated-Overture Trooble. They have caused me nothing but an articulated, bastardized mêlée of trouble.

I returned home Saturday night to find the stars screaming and the arachnids singing yet again…

Top

I saw an iMac, a greenish-blue flavored one

Optimized for April 10, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Spice Girls, Englebee Troobles, pincer monkeys, screaming stars, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, Mister Ollanthorpe.

The noisy and illustrious spiders and stars kept me awake all week. I didn’t sleep a single widget-amount nor a plink. I spied a pincer-monkey gnashing its teeth and racing a car around my bedroom’s wallpapered walls on Tuesday, Wednesday and part of Thursday.

The paradoxes of pairs of ducks are unexplainable. Inexplicable. Inscrutable. Machine-washable. They can perform complex double integrals with exponential and derivative integrands at the speed of an unweighted Higg’s boson! They can rasterize and carbonize any intricately consolidated equipotential bivalent nuclear force with amazing aptitude, sagacity, and indefatigability. They can even extort money from Al Capone!

Please find out what I was doing this Saturday morning. It was vary elliptically interesting. Even with a comb, it was still… partisan. Deaf-defying. Onion-like, you could even say. Magnanimously efficient. Carbonaceously graceful! I ate a ham and salami sandwich, with some more ham and salami in my root beer float. I saw an iMac, a greenish-blue flavored one, next to the news server of the shoe of the bong-hit of the universal sublime plenum (poor Mr. Wilson?). It was interesting: It even had a two-button mouse, and a crackpipe. June was interesting. I think I am being followed by my evil ex-neighbor, Samuel Dreckers. I wish Mister Ollanthorpe von Sträsmussenbörg were still alive. He could tell me what to do. He could tell me why I never found any Englebee Troobles, especially the one who loved Alyssa Milano’s feet. Or did he love the Spice Girls’ feet? Those are very nice. I cannot remember…

I pressed the µ key on my keyboard and can’t type anything now. I must scratch this into my monitor manually now, then re-scratch it with a very fine needle into the hard disk. Maybe I need a new rubber ducky.

Top

The Trooble Foundation

Irked on April 17, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Englebee Troobles, pincer monkeys, screaming stars, singing spiders.

A stupid defense is a stupid offense. A stupid can is a stupid jar. A moronic urn is a paltry way of saying hello to me. I am Pnårp, the great writer, the searcher for the Englebee Troobles, the victim of singing spiders, pincer monkeys, and screaming stars, and the desirer of Alyssa Milano’s feet. They haunt me. I hear another inaugural address on the radio in my lightbulb of a demented mind, this one by former President Piggy-Man.

He was a stupid president. No one liked him. I liked to drink from water fountains in Nebraska, and not get kicked in the head for saying I didn’t drink milk and polymer soup. I thought about skimping on my hourly payments to the Trooble Foundation on Saturday, but I couldn’t. Instead, I knocked myself out with a flower pot, saw Allah, and went to bed with dirt in my hair.

Top

Music erupted from my bed cushions

Cosigned on April 24, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Spice Girls, Carpathian Mountains, dogs, feces, goats, nose, Mister Wilson.

The music erupted from my bed cushions, pots and pans today. It sounded like the melody from “Red Blaze of Hellfire” by Lycanthropy. I don’t know why it happened, but it did.

I thought maybe the receipt from the ATM machine, or the letter Æ painted on my window would tell me. I asked them, I implored them, I even sacrificed a goat to them; but they could not. So I tried puffing on a blowfish’s tail for 2.768491092048 hours, but that did’t work either. I smell a Carpathian Yapping Hound whining at my door, and scratching the enamel off of the booby-trapped doorknob. But Saint James told me to shut up, or he’d smack me (poor Mr. Wilson!). The textfield is blinking at me from the bowels of the two-button mouse universe, pressing against the files and folders of my life. Where’s my so-called “CPU”? I think it is missing. I found some paper, but it is not a CPU. It looks more like the stuff that I used to stuff my nostrils and anus with when I have a Carpathian multiglandulatory problem.

Oh, that’s right. Right, right… so correct it smells like Pine-Sol.

Upon finding a copy of the newspaper Allegheny Tribune–Ledger, I read the story about the panhandler who spontaneously exploded when a smaller bill had entrapped him on Broad Street in Knoxville, Tennessee. He didn’t smell like Pine-Sol after that. More like Microsoft™. Bill Gates is a doofus, and the Spice Girls actually have nicer feet than Alyssa Milano (and more of them!)—although her feet are still cute and delicate. Something went “Adoogity!” at me right now from beyond a keyhole in my winchell. Wow.

Come and get me, orange spheres of mouse dung!

Top