Pnårp’s March, 2006 ham & eggs

The haberdashery, act I

Taunted on March 5, 2006

Tags: George Armstrong Custer, cornpones, eigen, homburg, triangular briefcase, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger.

I flopped on by Mr. Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger’s haberdashery on Wednesday, inquiring as to whether or not he would like to take on an apprentice. He said no. So I begged him, and pleaded with him, and taunted him over his bald spot, and finally he said, “hell no.”

So I left, again dejected after having been rejected, and physically ejected, on the point of a spear that Mr. Harshbarger, the haberdasher, keeps for just the occasion (ejecting people from his haberdashery). I went over to the Ham & Eggs again and ordered a ham-and-egg sandwich, three oranges, and a glass of orange juice—an empty glass of orange juice; I planned to squeeze the oranges myself. The waitress told me the cornpones were very good this time of year; I ordered 46¾ golden cornpones and 23 silver ones, and ate them all in front of her and the moose she rode in on.

“Great Custer’s Ghost!” I shouted as I awoke this morning, remembering that it was once again the day to update my festering pile of a website, lest the website police pay me a visit and slap me silly for not updating it. I updated it while wearing my new homburg (let’s see if those damned gnomes steal this hat!) and sitting atop my isosceles valise. The update went well, and when I finished, I only had to disinfect my computer of a mere three viruses this time, not the usual seven or eight.

I hate the Internet.

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The haberdashery, act II

Flaunted on March 12, 2006

Tags: death, eigen, goats, sex, triangular briefcase, underdogs, Samuel Dreckers, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger.

Again, I flopped on by Mr. Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger’s haberdashery on Wednesday, inquiring as to whether or not he would like to take on an apprentice. Again, he said no. So I begged him, and pleaded with him, and taunted him over his expansive beer gut and fourth chin, and again he said, “hell no.”

So again I stopped by the Ham & Eggs (a triangular sign in one window said they’re renaming the eigencafé to the Crammin’ Pegs next week), and ordered myself a spam sandwich, fourteen truffles stuffed with ham and scrambled eggs, and a roast pig still on the spit. They delivered the pig, but forgot the spit, so I shouted “Blam-damn you splonglers, you unga-bunglers; can’t you get anything right?!” and hustled on out of there without paying one ingot for that “meal.” They weren’t happy and tried to muster a posse after me, but I killed all their assassins one by one (old Sammy Dreckers included!), by beating them to death with an old lampshade attached to an underdog.

The underdog, unfortunately, was killed in action. Its last words to me were: “Woof, woof… woooof.” Poor underdog.

On Thursday, I visited a brothel behind the abortion clinic on Squayzie Avenue, and got arrested. Whatever you read in the newspapers about a brothel bust that netted half a dozen goats along with one Mr. Phillip Årp, dear readers, it isn’t true. Unless you hear it from a horse-monkey’s mouth, nothing is true.

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The haberdashery, act III

Haunted on March 19, 2006

Tags: George Armstrong Custer, alabaster, dingleberries, eigen, gnomes, goats, hamsters, porcupines, sex, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger.

Once again, I flopped on by Mr. Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger’s haberdashery on Wednesday, inquiring as to whether or not he would like to take on an apprentice. Once again, he said no. So I begged him, and pleaded with him, and taunted him about his daughter having been arrested in a brothel along with her “client” and six small goats, and once again he said, “hell no.” This time, he added, “Come back again, and I’ll shoot you with a baseball bat, you knave.”

I was too frightened to tell him that you can’t shoot people with baseball bats (only schmongel them, and perhaps dingleberry their hamsters), so I slithered lithe porcupines from my pores and ran out of their in a casual saunter.

Again I visited the local eigencafé, now called the Crammin’ Pegs, and ordered a ham-and-spam sandwich with some scrambled eggs on the side (I wanted to play with them first), along with a single strip of Canadian bacon and a dollop of mint ice cream on top of it. They told me they serve neither ham nor eggs anymore, and then three large waitresses surrounded me and crammed a peg into my eye socket to drive the point home.

I ran out of there faster than you can shout “Great Brigadier General George Armstrong Custer’s Ghost riding a pure white stallion into the sunset along the shores of the beautiful Lake Erie!” while their waitresses chased me, trying to cram more pegs into my body wherever they could fit. It was a zany and whimsical trip home, filled with mirth and alabaster.

Two days later I finally figured out why they chose such an unusual new name for their eigencafé.

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The haberdashery, act IV

Wanted on March 26, 2006

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, death, eigen, gnomes, goats, pwee, sex, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger.

For the last time, I flopped on by Mr. Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger’s haberdashery on Wednesday, inquiring as to whether or not he would like to take on an apprentice. And once again, he said no. So I begged him, and pleaded with him, and taunted him over the fact that I was that “client” with his daughter last week (an earlier client brought the goats, I swear), but this time he didn’t say “hell no.” He just cracked my skull open with a baseball bat, after he realized he couldn’t use it to shoot me like he had threatened. He ate 30cm³ of my brains, too!

Afterward, I firebombed the Crammin’ Pegs, killing everyone inside. Why would I do such a dastardly and phallocentric thing, you ask, dear readers? Well, ignoring their refusal to serve ham and eggs anymore, ignoring their catering to lawn gnomes of any variety, and ignoring their cramming pegs into yours truly, I had one other reason: On Tuesday night, the Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes had returned in the wee hours (the pwee hours, my exalted grandmother would say) and told me to do it, so I had no choice. It was either firebomb the Crammin’ Pegs at precisely 12:34:56 in the afternoon, or they’d never let me see Alyssa Milano’s gorgeous little feet again.

I hope those Schmongeling Gnomes don’t return. Fight the future.

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