Pnårp’s April, 2006 mind-boggling & hornswoggling

My new neighbor from Georgia

Nazified on April 2, 2006

Tags: dogs, eigen, gnomes, hornswoggling, Pam and Meg, sex, triangular briefcase, underdogs, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, brother, Fyodor Vyacheslavovich Tvalashvili.

Yesterday being April Fools Day, I got fooled a lot (and I fooled people a lot, but I do that every day, according to Samuel Dreckers and poor Mr. Wilson). When I came home from another trip to Madame Beaux-Pieds’ brothel—it’s under Mr. Harshbarger’s haberdashery now, no longer behind the abortion clinic on Squayzie Avenue—I found my whole house had been turned upside-down and inside out! Someone had even painted pictures of moose and sea urchins all over my front door! But the clincher was this: the letter K drawn in elegant Fraktur across my driveway.

I had no idea what it meant (Nazis!?), or who did it (Nazis!?!?), so I went up and down my street, door to door, and bonked people over the head with my triangular briefcase. I had filled it with lead shot for just this occasion, making it as heavy as a rhinoceros in heat. Finally, someone confessed. He was depressed (as was his cranium); I was impressed: It wasn’t poor Mr. Wilson or Samuel Dreckers like I had suspected inflectedly, but my newest neighbor, a fat man from Georgia named Fyodor Vyacheslavovich Tvalashvili. He had only moved in about six hours earlier.

I spun around and flapped my arms like mad, accusing him of sending the Schmongeling Gnomes after me all these years—after all, he had only lived in the neighborhood for six hours, and didn’t even know me, so who better to accuse of haunting me all these months with incipient lawn gnomes? Fyodor Vyacheslavovich was nonplussed, so he drew a minus sign on my forehead and called me a “yak-breeding, inbred Cossack.” I rebutted his minus sign with a “±” stamped onto his forehead.

Then Fyodor Vyacheslavovich called me a “flimsy flim-flam man.” I couldn’t let that stand, so I let out a howl that made his windowpanes shake and his dogs soil themselves and bay at the moon like ocelots. His answer was brief: “Floople, floople!!! Floople.” He screeched those three words, darting back and forth like a lizard, in and out of his bushes and shrubbery. That was all I could stands, and I couldn’t stands no more, so I let him have it, all for the low, low price of $4,999.95: a diamond pinky ring that my dear, dear brother Grårp had been buried with.

Fyodor Vyacheslavovich thanked me kindly and went about his business, as I did mine: beating his dogs (one an underdog, the other a Cappadocian Twirling Hound) with my lampshade until they were willing to eat unfried hamburger for dinner. I went back to my upside-down house after that, strangely satisfied. F.V. Tvalashvili went back to Colchis.

I got a letter from him this morning. All it said was, “You’ve been hornswoggled, Mr. Årp.” I plan to ask him exactly what the heck that means tomorrow—just after I visit the new eigencafé at the end of the block, the Pam & Meg’s.

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Hornswoggled, I tell you!

Connived on April 9, 2006

Tags: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, hornswoggling.

Great Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Ghost strutting about my parlor! I’ve been hornswoggled!! I’ll write more next week after I calm down and crawl down from the corner in my ceiling where I hide whenever I discover I’ve been hornswoggled.

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The Englebee Troobles live!

Transubstantiated on April 16, 2006

Tags: feet, eigen, Englebee Troobles, gnomes, mother, nose, underdogs, sister.

The Englebee Troobles live!

The Englebee Troobles are real!

They’re as real as the Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes that used to haunt my abode, or my name’s not Phillip Norbert Årp! (And it is, by gum!) They’re as real as the nose on the end of my little finger! They’re as real as the eigencafé I visited in Eigentoria while hiding from ceramic lawn ornaments and their evil allies! They’re as real as my dear sister Plårp’s enticingly beautiful feet! As real as a piffle-whuffle baffling about the scaffold and scoffing about the snuffling underdogs under my udders! As real as the Schmarnocks flowers in my yack bard!

How do I know the Englebee Troobles are real…? My mother was one! Dear old Mamårp! A Trooble! Can you believe it?! Can you!?!?

Ahhh, ahhhhhh… ohh. I’ll write more on this next week, after I calm down and win first prize at this wet paper bag contest I entered last night! Yowee! Yowee, yoweewee, yoweeweewee!!

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Pam & Meg’s

Wheeled about on April 23, 2006

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, eigen, gnomes, goats, hornswoggling, Pam and Meg, Karl Winerboffer, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger.

Never mind. I was hornswoggled again. Anyway…

Last Thursday, I went to Pam & Meg’s again (the newest eigencafé in town, after some crazy nut burned the old one down because he thought he was being commanded about by pink flamingos or some such other kitschy lawn ornaments). I ordered a flask full of raw iguana eggs and a slice of three-toed sloth basted in yeast juice, and when asked which I preferred, I demanded both the soup and salad. Both Pam and Meg obliged obligingly. I had something called crème de la goat nipple for dessert: It was flaky, light and sweet, squirted milk, and went “baaa-aa-a-a!” when I cut into it.

On Friday, I didn’t have time to stop at Pam & Meg’s, so I just did a few cartwheels outside the eigencafé and plodded by stodgily. I was late for an appointment at Ollanthorpe Savings Bank over on Winerboffer Boulevard—I own 7% of the company and plan to announce to the board of directors my acquisition of another 35% today. That nickel I found on the floor of Mr. Harshbarger’s haberdashery before he brained me sure came in handy.

Now I remember where I had met Pam and Meg before: at Madame Beaux-Pieds’! Those were some great times. Wonderful, exciting, abjectly tectonic times, without a hint of lingonberry! Pam and Meg could make me completely forget about Alyssa Milano’s feet, and almost forget about the Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes infesting my corpuscles and animalcules…

Almost.

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The dingleberry/hamster song

Sung for April 30, 2006

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Spice Girls, dingleberries, hamsters, sandals, Mister Wilson, Loquisha.

I sang this to poor Mr. Wilson two days ago, at four o’clock in the morning outside his window. He enjoyed it so much he demanded an encore by dropping flour pots full of battery acid on my head. (He saved the actual flower pots for next time, I bet.) He strung himself out the window, dividing into six parts, he was so enamored with my serenade.

Each one of him flailed their arms at me and shook their fists with enthusiasm. So I sang it a hundred and twenty-eight more times, wearing a different hat—and sometimes even a lampshade or an old Chuck Yeager cape and cowl—on my head each time. I pray to little Loquisha’s feet, snug in their sandals, that all ten of her toes like it.

Once again, remember, boys and girls: It’s your future—don’t leave it blank.

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