Pnårp’s May, 2006 henpecks & viscosity

My oatmeal cookies

Surveilled pursuant to May 7, 2006

Tags: George H.W. Bush, George W. Bush, eigen, geese, oatmeal cookies, Pam and Meg, sex, Countess-Prelate, Genevieve.

Pam & Meg’s is gone. From what I heard through the gravepine, the whole building scampered off one evening after Pam forgot to put it back on its leash and Meg was too busy singing “In Excelsis Deo” in a deep baritone to notice. I’ll miss that old place, and Pam and Meg too—I wonder if they’re back at their old jobs at our local brothel. (It’s in the city hall basement now, under Mayor Julian Rhoodie’s protection, after it got busted again with him in it. I don’t think it’ll have to move anymore.)

I also heard through the gratefine that my oatmeal cookies have returned from their stay in southern Moravia! I’m overjoyed—I wonder if they had any “fun” with Regina Maria-Theresia Louisa Ilsa Ollanthorpe, Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg—or her daughter or their pet geese. I ate most of the cookies before they could tell me, and they sure as sure didn’t taste like goosefeathers, so yours truly is going to have to guess that they bobbed up and down in a frying pan while Rome fiddled and Nero burned. I wonder if George W. Bush, or George H.W. Bush (his father), or George G.H.B. Bush (the local rapist and level-one sex offender) knows anything about this. I don’t trust these cookies anymore!

My oatmeal cookies have spies everywhere…

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I still don’t trust these cookies…

Hollered well before May 14, 2006

Tags: Geri Halliwell, Melanie Brown, Melanie Chisholm, George S. Patton, God, hornswoggling, oatmeal cookies.

I spent most of this week hiding in my I’ve-been-hornswoggled corner again. No, I haven’t been hornswoggled again, dear readers, it’s just that the corner makes a nice place to hide from oatmeal cookies, too. (It’s warm, and tight as a drum, and I can build a fort there with my couch cushions and pretend I’m General George S. Patton holding off the armies of the Golden Horde.) These oatmeal cookies are no ordinary oatmeal cookies… they have spies everywhere! Everywhere! They’re after my cooking oil and my precious bodily fluids, God damn it!

What do I do!? Geri Halliwell, Mel B, even Mel C—help me!!!

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Oatmeal cookies and their spies

Weeded on May 21, 2006

Tags: alabaster, gnomes, oatmeal cookies, Shitlingthorpe, Turkey.

I’m up to my ears in ponytails and Shitlingthorpe–Alabaster Flapdoodles, but I can’t find a solution to these damned cookies! I tried everything: I got a turkey to gobble them all up, then a chicken, and even a real, live Turk named Kökcü, but nothing—nothing at all—worked. They still haunt me, splendiferously, churning and oatmealing their way through my life. They’re worse than the garden gnomes—at least the gnomes were only schmongelers, bless their little ceramic hearts, and not unscrupulous carpetbaggers like these oatmeal cookies.

I did a dance, an oatmealy rain dance, to try and drive them off, again to no avail. I tried slapping them, trapping them and even fapping at them, but they—and their spies, the salt and pepper shaker—just won’t leave me alone. I almost burned my house down again trying to burn the cookies up, but that only made them laugh and jiggle erotically.

I want the Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes back! They were so much easier to live with! Wheedling and needling, whirring and purring, I can endure—even enjoy! But oatmeal cookies and their spies take it too far! Too far!!!

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I thought this was better!?

Harvested before May 28, 2006

Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, gnomes, God, insect god, oatmeal cookies.

The Schmongeling Gnomes came back, in all their Westphalian glory. Thousands of Gnomus schmongelendi westphalici announced their presence in their usual manner: wheedling and needling, whirring and stirring, trumpeting the Westphalian anthem on a trombone carved from a hippopotamus’ hoof, and calling to the insect god Iggy Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps. They swung from the rafters with glee, danced on the rooftop with relish, and dangled from the lampshades without a care in the world (save their gnomely duties).

The oatmeal cookies left in a huff. They all looked pretty indignant, upset that I would prefer half a billion gnomes to their company of six. Davie (that was the big one, with raisins) called me an “ungrateful S.O.B.” before he rolled himself out of my house. Louie and Stewie called me a plim-fisted orangutan with an ox for a mother. The other three—Bobbie, Laurie and Corrie—just left silently, their heads hung in shame. I sat down and cried.

Then I saw the gnomes, everywhere dancing, everywhere prancing, singing and clinging to things, so I stood up and screamed. I thought this was better!? Gnomes!?! G. schmongelendi!?!? Alyssa Milano’s supple young feet, her slender toes, yes—those are better (much better!), but… gnomes!?!?!? What was I thinking!?!?

Oh, my Lord, here they come…

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