Pnårp’s October, 2006 ensmallening & prominence

Ollanthorpe Savings Bank

Puréed on October 1, 2006

Tags: Thomas Jefferson, AK-47, death, dingleberries, fez, gnomes, hamsters, mother, nose, triangular briefcase, brother, Mister Ollanthorpe, Haldûrburðgar.

As Thomas Jefferson said in 1937 when he basted a turkey with cream puffs and sewed up a mincemeat pie: “Don’t clatter your floozies while the oven door’s still open.” I spent most of Monday contemplating this advice, and finally had a revelation: Thomas Jefferson was surely a genius of unparalleled effrontery. Armed with this knowledge, and an oven door I tore from its hinges—and my trusty isosceles valise—I stalked into the Ollanthorpe Savings Bank and demanded my savings back. For good measure, I even demanded back the thirteen buttons I lent one of their tellers two years ago.

They just giggled at me, so I stomped around and—dingleberry, hamster!—muttered incarpacious plenitudes and flagranulous instoppelopathies at them. A witty double entendre followed when one of them mentioned my mother and his “deposit” in the same sentence. Then I punched him in the nose. It didn’t do any good; they sat there wheedling and needling… like a pathetic clutch of garden gnomes.

“Hideous gnomes!!!” I roared as I overturned a desk and used it to build a protective fort to defend me against their onslaught. (It was slow in coming, and hadn’t even started yet, but I knew it would eventually. I named my barricade Fort Grårp in honor of my dearly deceased brother.) The gnomey little men just sat there at first, staring at each other, but then they started to wheedle and needle louder. Some even had gilt parachutes growing from their backs; red caps (fezzes?!) emerged from their pockets!

“Whores of Haldûrburðgar! Quislings and collaborators!!” I wanted my AK-47, but all that I ended up with was the sound of their snickering and snorkering. It sounded like drops of molten lead hitting my duct-taped forehead from high, high above the ground. I got a plunger and mooned one of them.

They vacillated inflatedly; I saw my chance. I leapt abruptly from the protection of Fort Grårp, catching them off guard, and stabbed four of them with a fountain pen wrapped in banknotes. Before they could catch their breath, I burned Fort Grårp to the ground—no need to let it fall into enemy hands!—and ran out of there like the Third Coming was coming. Those bankers are collaborators—I swear it on my dead Mamårp’s grave!

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The Third Coming

Chopped lightly on October 8, 2006

Tags: George Armstrong Custer, fez, gnomes, hornswoggling, Jesus, Haldûrburðgar.

The Third Coming came this week; came and went. Surrounded as I was by Knib-Knob Gnomes, I missed it. All those trials and tribulations, those four horsemen I’ve heard so much about, the brass-footed Jesus with a flaming sword wagging from his tongue… and I didn’t get to see a single bit of it! I was bamboozled—hornswoggled, by jingo! Pestilence and famine happened without me.

This time, Lord and Emperor Haldûrburðgar was able to defeat Jesus, in a fight to the death in the middle of Gorgorndûr the Great Street (formerly Squayzie Street). Jesus was pissed. Our Lord sufficiently vanquished, our Lord and Emperor promptly returned to ruling us with an iron fist cleverly hidden behind kid gloves and a pointed felt cap (not a fez!). Perhaps the Fourth Coming, two score weeks from now, will be more successful.

Great Custer’s Ghost, Gnomelandia Day is next week! And I don’t have a thing to wear!!

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Gnomelandia Day

Filleted on October 15, 2006

Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, death, digititis, flatulence, gnomes, hamsters, homburg, hypoglycemia, insect god, MacGyver, sandals, triangular briefcase, underdogs, Loquisha, Haldûrburðgar.

October 12 was Gnomelandia Day, a day of remembrance and supplication, decreed by His Gnomeliness Haldûrburðgar, Protector of Gnomekind, Conqueror of Man, Lord and Emperor for Life, after he conquered my hometown and infested our houses and streets with trillions of gnomes. The entire Gnomish Army paraded up and down Main Street (“Æþaldur Way”) like a bunch of cavorting yaks, displaying their terrible weapons and their white little gnomey beards. I hid in the crowds and prayed for Gavrilo Princip to do his thing to Haldûrburðgar, but he never showed. Gnomish Air Force jets screamed overhead, gnomes descending from them on golden parachutes. Or maybe those were just butterflies and grasshoppers all over Alyssa Milano’s feet and between her toes; so hard to tell…

Having nothing more to wear than a green homburg, my triangular briefcase, a long and rambling website, and a life preserver shaped like a twelve-year-old boy, I didn’t dare attend the Gnomelandia Ball, as I had wanted to. I’d stand out like a sore bum. All the gnomes went; I hoped to infiltrate the ball and kill them all like MacGyver—with a paperclip, an old porno mag, a broken doorknob, and some twine I had found under a mattress in 1989—thus freeing us from their gnomely oppression.

Instead, I stayed home and listened to my MP3 collection of underdogs gone on farting sprees and hamsters dingling their berries in the face of Iggy Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps. I played with the flowerpot and a copper teapot that my sandal-footed little Loquisha gave me, too. (Are we there yet?) As the parades continued by my house and the Gnomish Navy shelled the coast in a demonstration of their awesome power, I realized: Hypoglycemia and digititis continued to have no sway over me; nor did Hrothgar or Vasco da Gama. The gnomes survive for now. Next year, gnomes, next year…

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Mesothelioma in a drainage ditch

Stir-fried for October 22, 2006

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Jack Off Jill, dingleberries, gnomes, hamsters, nose, singing spiders, Samuel Dreckers, Haldûrburðgar.

I sang this in the shower on Thursday—the only place the gnomes’ Orwellian panopticon can’t reach. I sang it at the top of my lungs, while the plush puff-dragons infesting my lawn did little rain dances to the screeching cacophony those hot Goth chicks call music. The dragon told me about mesothelioma (that’s bad), a batch of singing spiders I had accidentally left deep-frying in a jam jar (that’s good), and how Haldûrburðgar’s goons had knocked down Samuel Dreckers’ door in the middle of the night and dragged him away, never to be seen again (that’s bad—I think?), but I didn’t listen—I was too busy scratching out a living in a drainage ditch and whistling about Alyssa Milano’s soft, young feet.

Alyssa Milano’s soft, young feet… mmmmmmhhhh…

Then the whole world exploded in a Technicolor nightmare of pyrotechnics and technetium nettles. I blame Haldûrburðgar.

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Loquisha, you hornswoggler!

Added to taste on October 29, 2006

Tags: Alyssa Milano, Jimmy Carter, Monica Lewinski, AK-47, eigen, gnomes, goats, hornswoggling, insect goddess, sandals, underdogs, Mister Wilson, Loquisha.

“Bamboozled! Flummoxed and retarded, …hornswoggled!!”

I awoke on Tuesday (the day after Monday—Eigenday in Eigentoria, but something called “Grendlarður the Great Day” here in Gnomelandia) shouting that to myself, as I realized I had, once again, been genuinely bamboozled: flummoxed and retarded—hornswoggled! Hornswoggled by none other than my little girl, Loquisha! I stomped around my house, huffing and puffing, bumbling and stumbling, trundling forward, splumbling onward, muttering inconsistencies and forlorn epithets as I wondered if Jimmy Carter had ever met Monica Lewinski, or if Alyssa Milano had ever beheld the beauty of the voluptuous insect goddess Strahazazhia Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps (Iggy’s sister).

Snidely concluding a negatory, I stomped up onto my roof and fired a few rounds from my shingle-mounted AK-47 again, directly into the ex-home of my ex-neighbor, Mr. Maximilian X. Wilson. His ex still lived there, and I accidentally filled her X-shaped throw pillows full of holes. She excoriated me and tried to beat me with an ex-parrot (which was excruciating), so I ran away—shouting “Squirrelly-dee! Wa-ha, bah-bee! Boo, boo-boo, ma-feee!!” the whole way—and hid under an XML manual, while pining for the fnords and the happy sounds of Loquisha’s scampering about in her sandals.

On Wednesday, I emerged for some fresh ham and eggs, and a delectable crudberry pie. I wrote a memo to myself about all the hurly-burly that happened the day before, reminding my goaty self not to do it again, nor to ever look for underdogs under my underwear (it just doesn’t work, people), nor to ever trust Loquisha again—whether or not she entices me with her sandals. Then I went to work on the denunciation of my neighbors that the Gnome’s Commissariat for the Interior (GKVD) insisted I write.

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