Pnårp’s July, 2005 hobgoblins & flapdoodles

I slithered blithely out the door

Fetishized on July 3, 2005

Tags: cornpones, Englebee Troobles, gnomes, triangular briefcase.

I escaped their grasp on Saturday, I did! Yes, I did! How I did it was easy! They were busy wheedling and purring, puttering and stuttering around the house, leering their garden gnome leers at me, while I trounced and trundled about the house ectoplasmically, spasmodically, about to go up and out and out and up. It was so easy, easy as counting by fives in your head while you skate about a rink of jellied donuts and pastries. Oh, so easy, it was… E-Z!

How did I do it, you ask? How did I do it, I reply, confidently, sagaciously and mendaciously, nodding my head like an old wise man with a Brisbane beard and poodle hat. I did it as easy as stepping from one baguette from another, from one cornpone to another, from one xylophone to the next. (There are an awful lot of xylophones around this time of year, aren’t there?) I did this:

I slithered blithely out the door.

That’s right—that’s all; there was nothing else too it. They sat there doing their gnomely duties, whining and pining for their underground caverns, incestuously festering and gestating in the night, while I simply crept and crawled my way to freedom, upside down and wearing nothing more than a tarmac lightpost and carrying an isosceles valise. Orgy porgy!

It worked, and now I am free! With a hop and a skip and a jump, and an offer of over five hundred minutes of free air time on Wednesday mornings from 1 to 3 AM, I am out of their clutches forever.

A-hunting for Englebee Troobles I go now!

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Bowdlerization!

Bowdlerized on July 10, 2005

I’m not insane.

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Umph… plurgh… splat!

Ingratiated on July 17, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, death, Englebee Troobles, gnomes, screaming stars, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, brother.

This week, I vociferously renewed my Trooble quest by first visiting with my old neighbor on my old street down in the old fjords, Mr. Samuel Dreckers (alas, poor Mr. Wilson). I first inquired as to how his health was (it was fantastic), and whether or not he enjoyed the beauteous sight of Alyssa Milano’s pretty young feet as much as I did (he did—infallibly and indubitably, of course). I continued, inquiring about the Englebee Troobles. I was sure he would know about them, or at least where in Uzbekistan I could find a good podiatrist.

He answered me at once: “The Englebee Troobles don’t exist. They never have! Go away, young man, and do not bother people such as I, the trained assassin Mr. Dreckers—your Mr. Wilson be damned, by the way—with your silly obsessions!”

I responded, “Are you sure?”

He reiterated, salaciously: “As sure as my name is Mr. Samuel Dreckers, and as sure as I am a trained assassin, and as sure as you are surely an ass, yes!!”

I absconded, “Are you sure?” I was angry, and pessimistically ostentatious. Vertically, I should have queried, horizontally peeling, reeling, feeling for that glib answer. I sat and waited, baited, I was sure, with bated breath I did wait. And waited some more.

His response was didactic and conformatory: “Muahh.”

So I killed him and he died with an “umph… plurgh… splat!”

I killed him for my dear brother Grårp.

Tomorrow I shall press onward and upward (never backward, only forward!) in my search for the Englebee Troobles. I shall find them, or I shall surely die, having wound down into a perspicacious flea, a tiny micron-wide troglodyte, waiting forever for the screaming stars to end their spleen-ridden tirades and the garden gnomes to get off of my big toe.

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The perspicacious side of the planet

Wienerschnitzeled on July 24, 2005

Tags: feet, Geri Halliwell, cows, Englebee Troobles, nose, squirrels, triangular briefcase, Karl Winerboffer, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir.

On Monday I met a man named Karl Winerboffer, and asked him about the Englebee Troobles. He told me of a woman who kept one as a pet in a triangular briefcase. I thanked him, snorted out my nose, and rolled on by.

On Tuesday, I visited with one Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, who had very nice feet. She showed me the triangular briefcase, and the Trooble within—alas, it was a Jørgenssen Trooble, not the coveted Englebee variety. I snorted out my nose, praised her for her astoundingly beautiful toes, and rode away in a hose with my fedora askew.

On Wednesday, I lay in bed all day with Englebee Troobles on my mind and my mind on a silver platter beside my bed.

On Thursday, I did something. I forget. Might have involved a lot of heavy intoxication. Didn’t find any Englebee Troobles yet. Nope. Drat and dash.

On Friday, I travelled to the other side of the planet (the perspicacious side) and danced a jig on the back of a Levantine horse, then fed a punch-card reader a pile of old Bibles and burnt-out gooseflesh motorcycles from southern Caledonia. This had something to do with my hunt for my squirrelly prey, but I forget what—it might have been something that came to me in a vision of auk and bison on Thursday.

And on Saturday, I went to plee plaugh wakha woogle borfity-skoo, morpson and diddle and forbity-goonk. Waggle-daggle ding dong, and goosey koosey koo, waggo backo Jacko and diggery-sfphoo. Ångly-bangly and borfle my tittle, wank-a-doodle-do and Geri Halliwell’s toes in the middle. My name is Phillip Norbert Årp, yes, with two Ls and a little spingly-bongle over the A shaped like a circle, and I really must go fetch the cow over the moon pie and hot diggity dog!

Oooooaaaauuuummmppphhh!!

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Soft, and steaming lightly

Castigated on July 31, 2005

Tags: death, eigen, Englebee Troobles, feces, gnomes, pi, porcupines, screaming stars, squirrels, Samuel Dreckers, brother.

I climbed a hill today, to meet with a man who claimed to have the last Englebee Troobles in existence! His name was Richard Dreckers, Sr., the grandfather of the very Samuel Dreckers that killed my dearest brother Grårp, and whom I killed over a cup of tea and strumpets. I didn’t tell him about Samuel (obviously! cetaceously!), but only asked him if he really possessed the last Englebee Troobles on Earth. But for the threat of returned eigenfactors from the eigenfactory and renewed fighting over the benefits of a platitude, I would have shouted to the winds about parsimonious strudels and hamstrung carbuncles. I was that euphoric.

He said he did have one. Vendaciously, he showed it to me, and bodaciously, did I look upon it. And, mendaciously—

It was black—black as coal. It was as big as my head! It was soft, and steaming lightly.

It was a big pile of squirrel dung.

I asked, “This is an Englebee Trooble!?” as I turned pale and slithered lithe porcupines from my effacious pores and visions of garden gnomes danced in my cranium, writhing. The screaming stars had been opprobrious and cretaceous all along. The flying pi: tantric.

He answered yes.

I went, “Fnaåaåarrrpp…” and passed out.

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