Pnårp’s June, 2005 horsefeathers & flunkery

Zero-factor linguistics

Laughed about within June 5, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Spice Girls, death, pi.

The predisposed chattel, the zero-factor linguistics, explained it all. It poofed itself up, stood on its hind legs, and belted out the British national anthem. I saw my name written on the back of a bus in the K-Mart parking lot today, while standing on my head and singing to myself about human belching.

No purchase was necessary. I could sign up in under five minutes, and then I would have to pay only 99¢ a minute for seventy thousand minutes. Boy, what a deal. A multifarious, triskelion deal, almost! I stopped myself, as the Spice Girls and Alyssa Milano would (damnation! those feet again…), then went monkey-crazy and killed another floating pi. They were fun.

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What an Englebee Trooble is

Incarcerated on June 12, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Englebee Troobles, feces, flatulence, Fluffernutter, goats, God, nose, pi, triangular briefcase.

Another day, another bit of paltry Malthusian Fluffernutter to deal with, as the old aphorism goes. And cats in the cradle and my ears bloodshot and drunken. Earlier this week, a clutch of starfish elucidated forthrightly that my website is a problematic pile of—they put it bluntly—meerkat feces, topped with a dollop of minty-fresh ranch dressing. I naturally took splendiferous objection with this, especially as they bothered me during my phantasmagorical contemplation of the Fraunhofer patents and Alyssa Milano’s lovely feet (mmmhh…). Thusly, instead of taking any pertinacious or loquacious advice they may have disgorged expeditiously, I promptly used them for a deciduous garbage disposal.

Their parsimonious blibble-babble still continued to anger me, infatuatingly so, so I effetely decided that I would force them to become less perpendicular to the reticular dysgenesis encephalopathy.

It didn’t work.

So, I arose and went for a stroll on my triceps, singing and flinging about the fact that, in all my years, I never once found a right proper Englebee Trooble. (I bet you thought I was finished with the Trooble chase, didn’t you, dear reader?) Passers-by, concerned, intercepted me and asked me what an Englebee Trooble was, so I told them:

An Englebee Trooble is a nattering thing that squats in the window and chimes out the daylight hours forever and forever! An Englebee Trooble is more quixotic than a flying pi, and it’s more scrumptious than an entire collection—even a sagacious one—of triangular briefcases! An Englebee Trooble can tell you the difference between a crowing cock and a sowing sock and a flowing flock without the slightest difficulty of transubstantiationalism, and it can do it while sitting on its haunches and whistling through its flatulent nostrils!

Oh, ohh! An Englebee Trooble would solve all the world’s problems, and even most of mine! Ahh, if only I had an Englebee Trooble or two, yes! I’d monophonetically metamorph into a catalytic orthography faster than you can lucidly spout, “Qweeeeeeeeeee… weppa weppa weppa spork-ding bloogle!” Ahhh, yes!

Furthermore! An Englebee Trooble would, by God, fornicatiously—!

But each time I tried to tell them about how an Englebee Trooble would fornicatiously matriculate the phlogisticated carbuncle, every one just said “Spwahh?” and walked away. So much for employing the help or harness of other allomorphically incestuous people in my quest for Englebee Troobles.

At this point, I spun on home and ate a dinner of canned spiders, over easy, and crème de la goat nipple.

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Incipient garden gnomes pouring down

Shined & enshrined on June 19, 2005

Tags: gnomes, God, kudzu, screaming stars, singing spiders.

Oh, my God!!! Incipient garden gnomes pouring down from the clear-blue sky and landing on my face, filling me up to the ears with their scrumptious goodness and minty-green, refreshing taste! Oh, to be in Kalamazoo now that April isn’t there! Or with Hrothgar. Garden gnomes, lawn gnomes, they all come down, billowing in their gold-plated parachutes, dizzyingly arrayed with ventricles and left-wing patter—they sing and fling and whine and splatter and hoot and holler and they make a terrible mess all over the place and all over my face, but oh! how they fall and fall and spin and twist in the perfidious winds as they sail to the ground!

The kudzu creeps along the ground, slowly, slowly now, forever approaching me, hurling me paradoxically into the yawning breach, the gaping maw of Freedom, the laconic void filled with draconian singing spiders, previously splattered, and the screaming, dreaming stars, stars whom I surreptitiously dispensed with, or so I thought, with a yarmulke and harmonica. The stars, oh! the stars, they do scream, and they dream and careen about, angularly, perpendicularly, alternating their right ascension with their left latitudinal factorialization at entire parsecs per minute! Parsecs!!

Kudzu, kudzu, Kalamazoo! Kudzu stretches and leaps and twists in the wind; lawn gnomes crawl and brawl and haul themselves upright to place their tectonic aphrodisiacs upon my bearded plenum! Oh! Oh! How it goes abruptly into the purple-hazed and hoary night!

The never-ending stars—!!!

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A gaggle of garden gnomes

Engulfed on June 26, 2005

Tags: dogs, Englebee Troobles, gnomes, nose, pi.

The garden gnomes, how they love me. They sit there and stare, their keyboards chattering in the night, going “Clicka-clacka weeple-wopple!” until I can’t stand it anymore and I beg them to bag a dog and pass the burritos. But they persist insistently, never desisting, just existing, twisting, blistering and festering, reminding me of simpler times when the angry floating pi would sing to me of Englebee Troobles and I’d pass the time with a pipe up my nose and a kazoo in my spine.

Now there’s nothing except a gaggle of garden gnomes.

Gnomes.

Gnomes.

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