Pnårp’s February, 2006 spoonerisms & philately
| Interrupted before February 5, 2006 |
| Made peace with on February 12, 2006 |
| Telephoned on February 19, 2006 |
| Hammed up for February 26, 2006 |
Hobnobbishly bamboozled, she said
Interrupted before February 5, 2006
Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Spice Girls, dogs, flunkery, geese, gnomes, God, horsefeathers, nose, pwee, triangular briefcase, Countess-Prelate, Genevieve.
Apparently, I was right last week: There was no tomorrow. Not with Regina and her daughter and her daughter’s pet geese, anyway. Not with their feet, either. They threw me out with nothing more than my triangular briefcase, a fish sandwich, and two words: “Hobnobbishly bamboozled.” Damnation and inflation! And the garden gnomes are back, and they’re crawling all over my skin and up my nostrils and down my veins, wheedling and needling as usual… Oh, my Lord, they’re everywhere!!!
They… they announce that they’re… they really are…
Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes!!! Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes, why do you haunt me like you do!? Why do you harass me, and tax me, and harry me whenever I sally forth into the heather!? Schmongeling Gnomes, Schmongeling Gnomes, go schmongel someone else, you yap-hearted flee-bitten cotton-picking confounded dumbfounded dumbelled bell-bottomed bottom-feeding horsefeathers and flunkeries… you, you rapacious yapping hounds, you stinking hounds that reek of burnt umber and wine vinaigrette, you stammering and yammering, gibbering and jabbering… you… Gibber-Schmongeling Troobles! That’s what you really are; I know it, the whole world knows it, even the Venereals on Uranus know it—Gibber-Schmongeling Troobles!
Out, out, out of my house, out of my teapots and domes, out of my gonads and my strife, out of my scandalously-clad, bare-footed fantasies of Alyssa Milano and the Spice Girls and Jennifer Love Hewitt—go, leave me alone, leave me be, Gibber-Schmongelers, leave me to breed goslings with the Countess-Prelate’s daughter’s pet geese!
Pweee, pweeeeee, pweeeweee, weewee, pweedle-deedle deeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
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A pastry on both your houses!
Made peace with on February 12, 2006
Tags: feet, Jack Off Jill, Englebee Troobles, gnomes, pwee.
“A pastry on both your houses, Schmongeling Gnomes of Westphalia! I destroy you all, with a teacup full of Tobasco sauce and a little number I picked up while playing harmonica in a harem twenty-seven years ago!”
That’s what I said to them on Tuesday: I said it, shouted it, squealed it, howled it from my rooftop as loud as I could—and all the Gnomus schmongelendi vanished with a puff of verdant smoke and the sound of small twaddles flickering against stately pleasure domes decreed by Kublai Khan. I am free again, free of gnomes of any stripe and flavor, free to…
…To bask in the warm glow coming from the floodlights in my front lawn?
…To breathe in parsimonious airs while putting on airs and air shows about fallacious noodles?
…To admire the lovely Goth chicks of Jack Off Jill, and their feet?
…To while away the days going “Pwee, pwee, pweeweewee!” in my closet and pantry?
…To …to hunt Englebee Troobles once again???
What should I do now!?
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I need a new hobby
Telephoned on February 19, 2006
Tags: eigen, gnomes.
In search of a new hobby (a new “neurosis,” some of my neighbors derogatorily inflected upon it), I traveled high and low this week, near and far, north and south, east and—well, not west; the western side of my town—Westphalia—is full of Schmongeling Gnome breeding grounds, I’ve heard. But I went everywhere else and in every which way, sang every which song I could think of about finding new hobbies (there are three), and flung every piece of dryer lint I could find in every which direction.
I found nothing to speak of, nor anything to write home about, nor anything to infuse into my website here—oh, I found plenty of baubles and frivolities, plenty of dibdaubles and even some antimony, but it all amounted to nothing, none of it raising my curiosity or killing cats like that old proverbial saying proverbializes about. I plastered myself to the wall of the post office, had a fine dinner of ham and eggs (at the newly-opened eigencafé in McGillicuddy Plaza, the Ham & Eggs), and then went home, depressed and dejected, not having been impressed, but having been ejected… from the Ham & Eggs, for calling the cook a “yak-backed schnook” …ejected like an old Betamax cassette with a torn tape.
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Ham and eggs, a dram of megs
Hammed up for February 26, 2006
Tags: feet, Englebee Troobles, fez, sandals, Loquisha, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, Countess-Prelate.
« Ham and eggs, ham and eggs, they go so good …with spam and dregs!
Ham and eggs, ham and eggs, they taste so great …with a dram of megs! »
I sang that to myself, in French and Norwegian (as any erudite professor of European typography can immediately recognize by the quotation marks I chose to use above) as I strolled around town, into the bowling alleys, up and down the squares and plazas, in and out of the schools and parks, and up and down the walls of the sperm-donor clinic on Horatio Hornblower Street. Loquisha giggled—barefoot, her sandals tossed idly aside.
I looked under ever rock and stone, I turned over every new leaf, I peered into every crack and crevice, but I found no new hobbies or bobbies or even Wobblies, to bother with. With the gnomes gone, the Englebee Troobles revealed as steaming piles of fraud, my fez stolen, and Regina Maria-Theresia Louisa Ilsa Ollanthorpe, Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg, having dumped me in the street like an unattractive Dalmatian princeling, I have nothing to do now. Perhaps I should bury myself in the Mohole for a year or six-hundred and forty-seven…
…Or perhaps I should take up haberdashery under the strict tutelage of Mr. Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, the haberdasher.
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