Pnårp’s October, 2005 fiddlesticks & corpulence

Saturday was the worst

Hobnobbed on October 2, 2005

Tags: AK-47, Carpathian Mountains, dogs, gnomes, Leviticus, nose, pwee.

Tuesday was not a fun day for me. The garden gnomes infested my house, in herds, in droves, in heaps and piles, swinging from the rafters, dancing on the rooftop (and firing the AK-47 once they dislodged it from the shingles and figured out how to turn the safety off with their little gnomey fingers), advancing on the beltways, and dangling from the lampshades, holding themselves by their toes and holding my nose to the grindstone while I scribbled the letter G on my flaring nostrils, all alone. They infested my house, ingested my housecats, and—in jest, surely—divested my portfolio!

Thursday was worse. I escaped the gnomes’ grasp, somehow—I didn’t slither blithely out the door this time though; I’m not going to teach them any more new tricks, oh no!—and then I buried myself in a hole in the sweet, sweet earth, and imagined what it would be like to never have seen a garden gnome, never have smelled a lawn gnome, nor ever to have even heard of a Trooble, of any kind, in my entire cut-away life. Then I suffocated under that sweet, sweet earth, for the hole was too deep and someone filled it in while I meditated and eventually hypoxiated over my predicament. I woke up back in their clutches (the gnomes’! who else’s?) while they sounded off about Carpathian Stinking Hounds and Yapping Hounds and something called a “happy, hungry Levitican squealing-wheel.” So then I just sat there and watched DVDs all day.

Saturday was the worst. It just was.

(Wednesday was, however, a fun day. I spent all day spinning in circles, waving my arms, and going “Pwee, pwee, pweeweewee!” in my closet!)

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The lawn gnomes prance!

Gingerbreaded on October 9, 2005

Tags: Spice Girls, dogs, gnomes, nose.

…The lawn gnomes are driving me insane!!!!!

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Caught in a wet noodling contest

Noodled on October 16, 2005

Tags: George Armstrong Custer, gnomes, horsefeathers, nose, testicles.

By Tuesday morning, sure enough, the lawn gnomes had driven me insane: completely, totally, indubitably, stark raving mad. I was madder than a hatter, madder than a haddock, madder than a wet hen under the noonday moon, madder than George Armstrong Custer caught in a wet noodling contest without a noodle. I spent all day Wednesday and seventy-four minutes of Thursday reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in Farsi, and then the rest of Thursday scarfing down a large soup bowl of lasagna. Lasagna that the garden gnomes made for me—made for me out of horsefeathers and testicle pie.

Great Custer’s ghost! The garden gnomes—and I’m still not enfliverously sure if they’re “garden gnomes” or “lawn gnomes” or perhaps even a variety of the elusive Westphalian Schmongeling Gnome, for they won’t tell me anything other than that my nose smells like cream pie—have driven me insane!

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The thick, meaty center of an eigenfactor

Ridiculed on October 23, 2005

Tags: Chechnya, eigen, Englebee Troobles, flabble, gnomes, nose.

The lawn gnomes are everywhere. They haunt me in my sleep, they haunt me while awake, they dither and loiter and dingle and dangle about my house, flailing themselves around efficaciously, babbling and flabbling incessantly, always there, always here, always everywhere. The lawn gnomes, the lawn gnomes, the great big tiny little giant puny lawn gnomes, in cute little hats (not fezzes!)… how they haunt and taunt me, and flaunt themselves at me, playing with my AZERTY keyboard like it were made out of the thick, meaty center of an eigenfactor.

An eigenfactor. I remember meeting an eigenfactor once, straight from the eigenfactory it had come: It had come to unfurl itself upon me, to gregariously uncurl itself near me, to bother me and try to take me back to its eigenhouse in the eigencity up in the country known as Eigentoria (that’s near France). But I wouldn’t go. I had Englebee Troobles to hunt, so I told it—and I did.

How I regret that. How I regret wasting years—entire barnfuls of years—of my life hunting those Troobles, hunting them and grunting at them, hunting them to the ends of the earth (Chechnya, if I recall correctly), and all for no other reason than that I had a paperclip stuck up my nose and I had been told that Englebee Troobles were experts at nasal paperclip extraction. Whatever happened to Mary?

Oh, to be in Eigentoria now that the lawn gnomes are here…

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I shall visit Eigentoria

Bandied about on October 30, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Spice Girls, Rory Calhoun, AK-47, dogs, eigen, Englebee Troobles, fez, gnomes, God, pi, rat-fighting contest, Sicily, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers.

I decided this week that, next week, two weeks after last week, I shall visit Eigentoria once and for all—and, if it’s everything that it’s been made out to be, so help me, Lord (unless You’ve got better things to do, like smite the Englebee Troobles You’ve been taunting me with, or torture Samuel Dreckers some more), I shall live there until the end of my days.

I’ve packed up my entire house into a small, dented tin cup that I had kept under my bed (that is, until I put my bed inside the tin cup). Everything fit: the bed, both pillows, my paisley-patterned curtains, my desk and four swivel chairs, my kitchen table, that twirly thing I found in the street seven weeks ago, my computer, my whole website(!), my collection of Rory Calhoun autographs and Mustafa Kemal Atatürk stamps, my bucket of gnome feed, the laundry lint I keep in an old oil drum in my closet, both sugar packets I found in my medicine cabinet, the AK-47 I used to mount on my moth-eaten rooftop throughout most of the year, and, of course, my invaluable collection of thousands of photographs of a barefoot Alyssa Milano and barefoot Spice Girls.

On Friday, I went around to my neighbors and kissed them all goodbye. I wore the old fez that I won in that Sicilian rat-fighting contest, and a fresh diaper with a pair of Circassian socks draped from it. My neighbors all seemed happy to hear that I’m leaving for a while, perhaps permanently; some were even, dare I say, elated. Exuberant. Celebratory. I wonder why. I know that Samuel Dreckers hates me for good reason—I tried to steal his blueberry bagels and his assassin training manuals, and I steamrolled his house with a bulldozer commanded by a bulldog with a field commission—and poor Mr. Wilson always wanted to steal my Persian carpets, so I had to stick him with a hat pin over and over, but I still wonder why everyone else…

Aaaaiiieee!! Oh, my Lord, lawn gnomes everywhere! Gnomes, gnomes, gnomes! Garden gnomes crawling all over my face! Crawling out of my eardrums, down my eye sockets, out of my toenails! Oh, my Lord, they’re in the toenails again! Not the toenails!!! And they won’t go away until I go up to my roof and scream at the stars and recite pi and throw pies at passing motorists and fire the AK-47 into the street!!

Why do they always make me do this?! I hate it when they make me do this!!!

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