Pnårp’s December, 2005 dirigibles & submersibles

Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, the haberdasher

Belted out on December 4, 2005

Tags: Alyssa Milano, asshattery, California, dirigibles, eigen, flabble, gnomes, goats, Hell, hotdogs, sex, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, brother.

My good friend, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, the local haberdasher from the local haberdashery (next to the fishmongery and asshattery on Wiggensworth Street), paid me a visit this Wednesday. He stopped by my house on his way to Eigentoria (by way of Iceland, British Honduras, and Abkhazia) riding in a large red dirigible, which he told me also functioned as a submersible. I didn’t believe him, so I asked him to show me.

Mr. Harshbarger, the haberdasher, didn’t want to show me anything. Instead, he stood on his hands, all the while wearing a pea coat and a pitbull-shaped sconebopper upon his head, and kicked me in the face with his steel-toed boots! So I sent him to the same place I sent Samuel Dreckers, and my ex–dear brother Grårp: northern California.

I stole his dirigible and went on a wild ride all over the whole damned planet. I didn’t go anywhere near Eigentoria, though, even though that’s where Mr. Harshbarger—the ex-haberdasher—was headed. They still have those damned eigengnomes there! But instead, I visited Botswana, where the inflatable hotdogs are in bloom this time of year, then I swung by Belize to shout “Whoof! Whooof!” at the Belizeans, then I headed up to the hullabaloo in Geelong, Australia (that’s near Wodonga, over by Toowoomba and Warrnambool) in order to be accused of screwing a flock of sheep. I got lucky: They accused me of screwing five flocks of sheep—black ones!

(The dirigible didn’t work as a submersible: I ended up losing it at the bottom of the South Atlantic. That was an annoying swim home—too many sharks and floating garden gnomes and other encyclical things.)

When I did finally get home—where the hell is that inflatable goat doll!?—I paid another visit on Mr. Harshbarger, the haberdasher, in order to let him know where his dirigible lay. He wasn’t happy: He bounced around, snorted a lot, swore blithely, confounding and astounding me, flabbling about “that crazy idiot and his garden gnome fantasies and Alyssa Milano obsession,” until I sent him where poor, poor Mr. Wilson is: Hell, in a handbasket.

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Shitlingthorpe–Alabaster Flapdoodles

Zanzibarred on December 11, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Spice Girls, alabaster, death, Englebee Troobles, feces, gnomes, hamsters, Hell, nose, Shitlingthorpe, squirrels, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, Loquisha, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, brother.

Hell is a nice place this time of year, especially in a handbasket! Unfortunately, I had to visit hell in a small paper bag that I stole from a hapless little girl named Loquisha, unable to afford the luxury of my own handbasket—I wasted all my moolah appeasing Mr. Harshbarger, the haberdasher. It took a pretty penny to pay him off and get him to stop nailing things to my head. Orgy porgy!!

There are no garden gnomes in Hell—there are no gardens in hell; it’s too damned hot for them here. There are no Englebee Troobles, either—Hell does have big piles of steaming squirrel dung, some piles as big as mountains, even as big as my nose, but they call them “Shitlingthorpe–Alabaster Flapdoodles”—and these little babies don’t demand you write their names in all caps, either! I spent a few hours admiring them, playing with them and wallowing in them, before I stopped to wonder if Alyssa Milano or the Spice Girls and their gorgeous feet where anywhere around. As it turned out, they weren’t, so I went home emptyfooted. Drat and dash and double damned hamsterlings.

I hope Samuel Dreckers, trained assassin, is enjoying his time down there, and my dead-and-gone brother Grårp, and of course poor, poor Mr. Wilson, and Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger (the haberdasher). The tortures of hellfire are amazingly refreshing, especially when accessing broadband via one’s feet. And I hope old Beelzebub doesn’t notice I stole a Shitlingthorpe–Alabaster Flapdoodle for Loquisha!

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The perfect symmetry of a letter

Excreted slightly before December 18, 2005

Tags: feet, Geri Halliwell, AK-47, buttocks, death, Englebee Troobles, feces, gnomes, urine.

I was sitting in my bedroom last night, contemplating the perfect symmetry of a Fraktur R while drinking a bottle of the new horsepiss-flavored Mountain Dew, when I was disturbed by a sound not unlike the wheedling, needling noises made by a legion of garden gnomes returning to my abode once again. My first reaction was to wet myself and hide under my bed, of course—and my second reaction was to soil myself, and my third reaction was to wet myself again, from which followed my fourth and final reaction: reciting the King James version of Genesis 2:20–24 in falsetto while bungee-jumping from my ceiling fan. My fifth reaction was to get my AK-47 down from the roof and shoot it at random until the noise stopped or I killed myself or something else.

Or a lot of something elses, which is a lot of fun a lot of times. Bang, bang, bang!

But I ran out of bullets and flanges before any of those things could happen, so then I went insane and ran naked into the street—not entirely naked of course: I wore a belt made out of old neckties and new sausages, and I had drawn the letter R all over my chest and buttocks throughout the day, which helped drive people from the streets and stables as I scampered onward, ever flailing and twirling. I spun around, all fluster-bustery, dug myself a trench, and buried myself until the noise stopped.

But the noise wouldn’t stop. So I dug deeper.

The noise finally stopped, a full 64½ rather large minutes later. I slithered blithely back into my house (careful to make sure none observed this trick), wet myself again, and made sure there were no garden gnomes anywhere. There weren’t—not even hiding under the wallpaper or in the electrical outlets, there weren’t. I was happy: happier than I had ever been, happier than I had been hunting Englebee Troobles, happier than I am about Geri Halliwell’s feet, even happier than a pig in a poke! Or is that a pig in slop? A pig in a bucketful of feces? Fæces?? “Fex”? Is that word? Why does it say “Jebus” here?? Someone help, please… I’m not happy anymore…

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Today being Christmas…

Made merry on December 25, 2005

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, California, death, dingleberries, dingoes, dogs, feces, flunkery, foxes, gnomes, hamsters, Hell, horsefeathers, sandals, squirrels, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, Loquisha, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, brother, sister, Countess-Prelate.

Today being Christmas, I lit a bunch of W-shaped candles, hung them from the elm tree I had cut down and put in my living room along with a bucket of tinsel beside it, and then accidentally burned my house down again. Dingleberry, dingleberry, dingleberry… hamster! Today being Christmas, I got a whole pile of mail from all my friends (and enemies)—Christmas cards, most of them were, but one was a postcard that simply said “Baa-Baa Booey!” on it in gold lettering with silver gonads sprinkled about it. Gonads and strife. I blamed the squirrelly lawn gnomes for that one, even though the ceramic fiends had been crushed and shattered in my front lawn for days now.

Today being Christmas, poor, miserable Mr. Wilson sent me a card from Hell: He’s still dead, apparently, and still being tortured by snakes or serpents or some such slithery, scaly things. Damn Samuel Dreckers and seventeen generations of his offspring, ancestors, and kitty cats!

And horndogs, too.

Today still being Christmas (unlike that Sunday back in March where my calendar tricked me into thinking it was Christmas eve!), my ex–dear brother Grårp, moldering old zombie that he is, sent me a card too, also from Hell: He wished me a merry Christmas, and offered to polish my hamster dingleberries for me. I had to turn him down: My hamsters’ dingleberries are just fine, and I don’t plan on going back to Hell anytime soon, no matter how often people tell me to do so!

And my dear friend, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, the haberdasher, sent me a postcard from northern California: It was a picture of a moose fornicating with a squirrel-fox-dingo. Mr. Harshbarger, the haberdasher, always loved pictures of those squirrel-fox-dingoes. The card said “Go suck a moose, Phillip!” on the back of it, written in an elegant cursive hand. I cut the card into eighteen pieces and ate them all, except one—I sent that one back to Mr. Harshbarger (the haberdasher) with “Thanks, you fat glob of turkey stuffing!” written in my own cerebral fluids on it.

And my dear, dear sister Pollyanna Louisa Årp (we call her Plårp, naturally) sent me another collection of horsefeathers and flunkery, wrapped in orange spheres of mouse dung. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this before—and I’ve mentioned a lot on this useless old website of mine over the hurly-burly years—but my dear, dear sister Plårp has the cutest feet I’ve ever seen! Alyssa Milano, eat your toes out.

Merry Christmas from Pnårp, dear readers! I’d have Christmas presents for you all (and Grårp and Plårp and poor Mr. Wilson and Samuel Dreckers and little sandal-footed Loquisha and Mr. Harshbarger [the haberdasher] and even the Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg whom I think is also a zombie now, too), if the garden gnomes hadn’t stolen my epithelial cell walls the last time they flayed me a visit! …Bamboozled!

Dingleberry hamsters!!

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