Pnårp’s September, 2005 lollygagging & philandering

Engelby Trouble?

Prevaricated on September 4, 2005

Tags: Englebee Troobles.

“Engelby Trouble”!? It was “Engelby Trouble” all along!?!?!?!! Google, why didn’t you tell me this earlier?! Earlier!!!

Bah!

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Abortifacient skies, the burning air

Slobbered all over on September 11, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Carpathian Mountains, death, dogs, eigen, gnomes, rat-fighting contest, screaming stars, Sicily, triangular briefcase, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, brother.

This weekend, I stared at the open winds while the windows blew by with a whirling noise like that of a whale caught masturbating on a hot tin roof. The abortifacient skies answered me, their screaming stars streaming imperturbably and glibly astonishable. I honestly cannot tell you what the hell any of that means.

The burning air.

I attended another Sicilian rat-fighting contest this Friday (the rats lost; I won—but almost lost my jugular as a result!), and I won myself another triangular briefcase! It had three sides on the outside, and was painted blue, and had seven sides on the inside! I think I’m going to use it to hold all the pictures of Alyssa Milano’s feet that I’ve collected in my many, many years. (Alyssa Milano has very, very pretty feet, and even cuter toes.)

I heard (from one of the rats) that next week the prize will be a Carpathian Stinking Hound! I think I shall enter the contest again. I want a new stinking hound.

The abortifacient skies… how they enjoy hurling their screaming stars at me, their floating mathematical constants and eigenfactors (along with some eigenvectors and eigensausages sometimes), and how they do enjoy squirting out lawn gnomes by the armful. The lawn gnomes descend gracefully in their salient parachutes, churning and burning on their way down, over open sights, as they fall, but fall they do, and by the bushel!

Oh!! My dear brother Grårp, back from the grave after Samuel Dreckers killed him so many centuries ago (and that poor Mr. Wilson), will be visiting me this week! I can’t wait!

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The return of Grårp

Cordoned off on September 18, 2005

Tags: death, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, brother.

My dearest brother Grårp visited me this week, from beyond the grave!

He didn’t look like a zombie, but he sure smelled like one! He told me that he and Samuel Dreckers (whom I killed) have been getting along quite well with one another down in the seventeenth level of hell. I thought he was insane, but then again, he’s always thought I was insane. With a bump and a glurgle, we both disagreed to agree, and smattered the philately loop around his head.

I asked him about Mr. Wilson, but all he had to say was “Poor, poor Mr. Wilson. What happened to him couldn’t have happened to a worse fellow. I hope he’s down in the nineteenth level.” I slapped Grårp with a dead fish I had been keeping around for just this occasion—no one mocks poor Mr. Wilson, not even my dearest brother Grårp!

With a noise not unlike the sound of a fog horn clattering through the intestines of a rhinoceros, he then broke apart (having moldered under the ground for some time now) and the worms consumed him.

Now I’m sad.

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The return of the garden gnomes

Star-spangled high above September 25, 2005

Tags: feet, Spice Girls, AK-47, buttocks, corn, cows, dingleberries, Englebee Troobles, fez, flatulence, gnomes, God, hamsters, rat-fighting contest, Sicily, squirrels.

The garden gnomes came back this week; oh yes, they did, they did. Three days ago, while I slept, gently napping, dreaming of the Spice Girls’ luscious feet, there came a tapping, then a whapping, followed suddenly by a fap, fap, fapping: a wheedling noise, a whirring and stirring, coming from under my bed cushions and out in the corn fields growing from the AK-47 mounted atop my roof. The noise was sad, low, almost imperceptible—but, by God, it was surely the sound of them, or my name’s Gerónimo Gerhardt Papadopoulos-Schickelgruber XVII, from the seventh planet orbiting Epsilon Euobea! (That’s the greenish-yellow one with the buttocks-shaped moon above it.)

I was right, alas! In one came, alone, staring at me with its big gnomey eyes, glaring, staring and glaring out from under that little red felt cap (not unlike a pointed fez, like the ones they award at Sicilian rat-fighting contests!), making that noise that they make: the noise that announces to the world, “I’m a lawn gnome, a garden gnome; I’m your master, and the Englebee Troobles don’t exist and never have! Hah, haha, hahaha!”

I screamed “Aaaaiiieee!!! Oh no! Gnomes! Gnomey gnooooomes!! Whaaahoohoohoo!! Pnåaåaårp!!” and tried to step on it with my big toe as my hearts pounded in my chest, all aquiver and squishy like burnt lemonade, but alas it didn’t work—the slippery little creature just giggled its little giggle, nodded at me like a nude squirrel on LSD, and slithered blithely out the door, back to its gnomey lair.

Yes, you read that correct, dear reader: It slithered blithely out the door.

I’m sure of it now: Not only have the gnomes returned in all their flatulent glory, and with a vengeance (and probably a vole-infested cowpie or two, a dingleberry, and a hamster), but they’ve learned new tricks too—alas, they have learned them from me, Pnårp!

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