Pnårp’s November, 2006 expostulations & hypotheticals

Jacking off Jill to a squirrel-fox-dingo

Hypothesized on November 5, 2006

Tags: feet, Britney Spears, Jack Off Jill, dingoes, foxes, gnomes, nose, sandals, semper sic tyrannis, singing spiders, squirrels, triangular briefcase, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, Haldûrburðgar.

Gnomelandia is history—on Thursday, Lord and Emperor Haldûrburðgar finally packed up all his gnomely servants and trundled back to his underground cavern, carrying the 56,102,483,314,159,265,358 gnomes with him, snugly packed into his equilateral valise. I celebrated by uncorking my nose and letting gush forth a river of bourbon, then stopping to scribble the letter V all over my eyelashes and solar plexus.

The next day, while listening to Jack Off Jill jack off a squirrel-fox-dingo (my old haberdasher, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, loved those things!), I was interrupted by the sticky-sweet screeching and howling that is Britney Spears torturing a cantaloupe with a pair of pliers. Or is that an antelope… or a jackalope? A jack-off lope?? Wearing a lovely pair of thong sandals, Ms. Spears wouldn’t stop, until I scribbled semper sic tyrannis! on the walls and floor, and then spun around and shouted “orgy porgy!” to the four winds and five elements. Only then did she disappear—with a pop, squeak, and hiss, not unlike the sound of Jack Off Jill jacking off a legion of naïve choirboys.

Oops, I did it again!

Compared to the vicious and tendacious Britney Spears—barefoot or not!—I’ll take those ol’ singing spiders any day.

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A busjacking by Jack Off Jill?

Theorized about on November 12, 2006

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Jack Off Jill, dingoes, feces, foxes, nose, squirrels.

The Jack Off Jill jack-o-rama continued this week as I placated my nostrils by spinning slightly about my electric oven and placing my Frigidaire around a pile of frozen treacle and horn-snottery. That squirrel-fox-dingo sure looked tired, if not exhausted out of its skin, but on it went: upward, downward, inward, outward, back-and-forth–ward, forever jacking, jacking, jacking, and jacking. It didn’t stop—it couldn’t stop, not with that many crazed Goth chicks all around the poor, breathless animal.

Goth girls love those squirrel-fox-dingoes.

Pining once again for the graceful beauty of Alyssa Milano’s Feet, my old ship, now rotting at the bottom of the Pacific fjords, I sullenly bulled my way to a bus stop on Farnsworth Street, and demanded that I be able to take the bus home with me: I’ve always wanted my own autobus in my garage. The bus driver said no, of course, so I jacked up the bus, and, Jack Off Jill ever-present on my mind, sat down and soiled myself while weeping like a little child.

Anticlimactic, I know. So sue me, morons.

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I forgot about Hitler again…

Posited because of November 19, 2006

Tags: Adolf Hitler.

Once again, I completely forgot about Hitler. This caused me so many problems this week, I didn’t have time to write anything more than the following gurgling praise for Szczerbiaszowicz & Smith, the local butchery shoppery:

Pah, paah, pooey!! Ga dah, ga daah, gaa—doooey!!

Thank you, and good night.

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Britney Spears… or Jennifer Love Hewitt?

Rigorously proved for November 26, 2006

Tags: feet, Britney Spears, Jennifer Love Hewitt, asshattery, horsefeathers, hotdogs, Leviticus.

“Pah, pah, pooey. Ga dah, ga dah… gaa-dooey???”

On Tuesday, at 4 o’clock in the afternoon, twenty minutes past the swinejock dinglebongity, I asked this question blithely as I entwined myself about a pole in front of the Szczerbiaszowicz & Smith butcher shop. Mr. Szczerbiaszowicz himself answered me, teaching me many new consonant-laden curses in his native language in the process. I called him a “pah pah pooey man” and left in a huff—but Mr. Smith followed me, and stole all my snuff!

“Pah, pah, pooey. Ga dah, ga dah… gaa-dooey???”

I again asked passers-by in front of the butcher shop on Wednesday, Thursday, and part of Friday (only part, because Szczerbiaszowicz’s daughter chased me off with a feather duster—made from real horsefeathers!—mounted on an old billows filled with buckshot). None of the passers-by had any answers that came close to rigorously proving that Britney Spears’ feet are lovelier than Jennifer Love Hewitt’s.

“Pah, pah, pooey. Fa fah, fa fah… pretty footsies???”

I asked this question on Saturday instead—and nowhere near Szczerbiaszowicz & Smith either: Instead, I parked my inflatable hotdog in front of the asshattery on Wiggensworth Street, and belted out my query via a bullhorn shaped like a Levitican squeaking-shell. The answers I got were concise, and to the point:

“Baffle, snaffle—ptooey!!”

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