Pnårp’s August, 2005 rippin’ & snortin’

Troobles, long and hard

Deluged on August 7, 2005

Tags: feet, ankles, Alyssa Milano, Spice Girls, Englebee Troobles, feces, gnomes, hotdogs, pi, squirrels, Samuel Dreckers, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir.

I dreamed of Englebee Troobles, long and hard, fast and strong, lithe and sleek. I slept, while the garden gnomes danced and pranced, and wheedled and needled and sang their little sing-song song about stealing my manhood and making a scrumptious genital pie out of it (no relation to the flying pi, as far as I know). Gregariously, I slept, dreaming of the dreams of glorious Englebee Troobles, as I had imagined them to be, as I had known them to be, as I had been shown them to be: flying through the air with the greatest of ease, screaming and steaming, and hovering and towering and cowering and showering the world in their Troobly goodness. Sagaciously, I had been wrong.

I dreamed of (or did I scream for? or pine for—or whine for?) Alyssa Milano, and all the Spice Girls, and a young beauty named Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, and the lovely and supple feet they all had. Their toes, their feet, their arches and heels, their ankles, my dreams, my wonderful dreams of glorious Englebee Troobles and pretty young feet! I had nothing now! I had lost it all when I found a pile of squirrel dung, lightly steaming, lightly steamed, in the house of Richard Dreckers, Sr., and his damned grandson. Now I shall go get an inflatable hotdog and suck on it until I die of encapsulation.

Fickle ash-barger of it all, posh and piffle!

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Blast you all

Best if used by August 14, 2005

Blast you all, I’m not insane!!

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I’m ending it all!

Spindled August 21, 2005

Tags: AK-47, Englebee Troobles, goats, screaming stars, singing spiders.

The screaming stars return to mock me in their cretaceousness. The singing spiders, oh! how they sing, oh! how they sing their songs at the tops of their lungs, oh! how painful to listen in the emptiness to their songs, and the stars screaming, in the empty void that is my Trooble-less life!

My vacuum cleaner talks to me, in doggerel Pig Latin.

They must go away at once or I’ll… I’ll break into seven pieces, by jingo, and fly to the moon on the back of Osama bin Laden! I’ll press my luck and wring their necks and ring their phones off the hook and off the books, whining and bellowing for the Englebee Troobles to exist as I thought—knew!—they had. I’ll buzz the clouds in a cantankerous old goat, strafing the grounds before me as I plough onward, laughing and chortling and guffawing loudly about the complete and utter meaninglessness of an eight-sided traveling case and tote bag. I’ll buy five for the price of four, and three for a dollar, and I shall do a vicarious, serendipitous rain dance on the precipice of eternity, failing and flailing, writhing in ecstasy as I plunge to the depths of the sea, the Holy See! An AK-47 on every roof! Autoerotic suicide with a smile!

I’m ending it all, baby, and on a high note, too!

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwww!!!

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Spruce mustard and bouillabaisse

Trundled August 28, 2005

Tags: feet, bouillabaisse, Englebee Troobles, feces, Mister Wilson.

So what happened, you ask? Did I die, you ask? Did I hit the sea with a splat, or a gurgle, you ask?

I ask, do you ask?

I answer: To hell with your questions, man! Or… woman! (Do you have nice feet? Toes?) Get me some Englebee Troobles! Some real ones, not these filibusterous frauds shaped like horse dung! And I’d really enjoy some caviar with spruce mustard and burnt chocolate, too, and a spot of mayonnaise and Lysander sauce with golden bouillabaisse and bum pudding.

Poor Mr. Wilson.

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