Pnårp’s December, 2006 wrenches & wenches
| Wrenched away from me on December 3, 2006 |
| Whored out on December 10, 2006 |
| Drenched in sweat on December 17, 2006 |
| Prostituted on December 24, 2006 |
| Auld acquaintances forgotten on December 31, 2006 |
Bloviating and brachiating
Wrenched away from me on December 3, 2006
Tags: California, death, dingleberries, feces, hamsters, insect goddess, nose, porcupines, Spend-O-Mart, terrorism, triangular briefcase, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, Loquisha.
“Dingleberry… hamster!!” a man shouted on the street ahead of me as I walked down Skullduggery Lane near Parsimony Plaza this Thursday. I was immediately incensed, and hence, fenced in, I tensed: How dare someone mention my hamsters, or their dingleberries, without adding the obligatory ligatures about signatory gerbils and their loquacious acquaintance with Loquisha and my recurrent amnesia?
And how dare someone let my hamster dingleberries cross their synapses without offering a prayer of thanks to the voluptuous insect goddess Strahazazhia Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps and her six-legged delights?
Then I realized it was none other than Maximilian X. Wilson who had spoken blasphemy about my hamsters: my old neighbor, presumed dead and zombified after one too many run-ins with the trained assassin, that knave Samuel Dreckers. Last I had heard, Dreckers had dispatched Mr. Wilson with a roundhouse kick to the left cornea. My heart pounded in my chest as I clenched my toes and drenched myself in the sweat of pure, unadulterated rage. Lithe porcupines slithered from my pores. How dare he?!
Bloviating and brachiating like a chimp running for higher office, I made my way up to not-so-poor Mr. Wilson and answered him with as much effrontery as I could muster (my mustard having run out three days prior, and the mouse turd with which I replaced it a pallid substitute): “How dare you, sir?”
He was taken aback—much like the damaged pair of socks I had taken back to Spend-O-Mart the day prior.
“How dare I, Mr. Årp? How dare you, sir?” Mr. Wilson retorted, snorting, and not the least bit sporting—certainly, it was disaster that he was courting. His nostrils flared as he confronted my effrontery with a frontal bit of grumpery—I believe I caught him off guard, my audacity beating his sagacity and mendacity to a bloody pulp within the confines of a few seconds of metaphoricalistics. My eyes met his—then they were gone, lost in the fleshy flab of his overblown face.
“How dare I, Mr. Wilson?” I blustered, not the least bit flustered, again thinking of my empty jar of mustard and the mouse turd that replaced it. I tried to buy time, by spelling out in no certain terms how I felt: “Well, I never, sir—I am just shocked, shocked that you could do such a thing. Shocked—and appalled!”
“You’re ‘appalled,’ Mr. Årp?” He sneered, as I had feared. Then he slipped up, falling into the trap I had so artfully engineered, or so it appeared: “Mr. Årp, you are a hamster dingleberry, sir. And I call you this with a clear conscience.”
“Oh… ‘You’re “appalled,” Mr. Årp?’ Ha!” I mimicked him, sprinkling quotation marks liberally about the sidewalk. Then I made my final move: In one swift motion, I pulled a hat pin from my isosceles valise, and stabbed him right between the eyes with it! Squealing like a little piggy separated from its trusted swineherd, he collapsed in a pile of sticky goop, flowing into the drainage ditch alongside the road. He would never mention my hamsters or their precious dingleberries again. I stared down at his liquefying gobbledygookery with not a little satisfaction, knowing he would be in Hell—or possibly northern California again—by the end of business on Friday. I pulled out a stopwatch and started counting down the minutes, first in English, then in Xhosa.
“Good bye, and good riddance, ‘poor Mr. Wilson,’” I chuckled, then buckled my hat pin to a passing cuckold, and knuckled under and finally bought myself some terrorism insurance from a passing armadillo man. Walking off into the sunset, my furry boots atwitter with victory, I offered one final comment to anyone who watched from behind the bushes and under the shrubbery:
“Pah… pah… pooey.”
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The Great Fluffernutter Deluge of ’58
Whored out on December 10, 2006
Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Jennifer Love Hewitt, bouillabaisse, feces, Fluffernutter, gnomes, goats, God, gorillas, sex, singing spiders, Spend-O-Mart, Haldûrburðgar.
Another day, another bit of salacious anti-computationalism and Levantine foot-fetishism, as that old saying goes. (That’s the one we use ever since Malthusian Fluffernutter fell out of style, after the Great Fluffernutter Deluge that wiped out the lower south end of my city back in ’58.) This particular day was no ordinary bit of salacious anti-computationalism, however: It was the day that a giant and rather salacious computer came roaring down Bouillabaisse Boulevard and ate my house, kitchen sink and all!
It all happened so fast, I barely saw it coming—and once it was over, I still wasn’t sure what had happened, except for the singing spiders that announced afterward, in a singsong falsetto: “Ha, ha, hah, Phillip, ha, ha, hah! Your house was eaten by a computah!” I quickly dispatched the sneering spiders with a flamethrower fashioned out of a fork, a spoon, an old tampon, and a butane lighter, then I tried to rebuild my house from the four shingles, eight nails, and single piece of tarpaper that remained.
I succeeded—but the house was extremely small, and I couldn’t fit anything in it other than a single copy of the TV Guide: the one with Alyssa Milano barefoot on the cover along with two other barefoot cuties. This angered me, as did the raucous goat orgy taking place on Ornithopter Street, so I stomped around like Rumpelstiltskin, until I split in half just like Rumpelstiltskin, and melted into the earth (like a tub of butter left out in the sun), whereupon I became trapped in an underground cavern not unlike that which a Westphalian Schmongeling Gnome would call home, sweet home.
That angered me even more, so, after looking around frantically for Haldûrburðgar and his gnomely knaves, I reinstantiated myself aboveground and, resigning myself to the knowledge that my house would forever dwell in the belly of a rampant, randy Tandy, I built myself a new house out of old tires and cardboard boxes that I had found discarded along the side of Terwilliger Street and Goldfarb Avenue. That is, I tried to build myself a new three-story, five-bedroom house as I had had before (the extra bedrooms are for the gorillas!), but I gave up after assembling five sheets of cardboard into what looked very much like a fort a twelve-year-old would build.
Thus satisfied, I bedded down for the night within my cardboard fortress, which I dubbed Fort Flabberwocky, and for which I made a flag out of an old photo depicting Jennifer Love Hewitt sitting barefoot on her bed, one foot tucked beneath her lovely legs, and the other deliciously displaying itself for all to see.
My bed, of course, was nothing like hers: It was composed of three tires covered in a sixth sheet of cardboard stained with Lord-knows-what, and it employed a few thin sheets of old newspapers—some clearly used previously as ad-hoc toilet papery—for blankets. Ah, the good old days, just like when I lived behind the Spend-O-Mart on Crunkner Boulevard back in ’01, when people would call me “Crazy Phil” and try to trick me into thinking ceramic garden gnomes had come to life and stolen my epithelial cell walls.
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The Spend-O-Mart on Crunkner Boulevard
Drenched in sweat on December 17, 2006
Tags: feet, buttocks, death, sandals, Spend-O-Mart, stumblebums, tadpoles, Samuel Dreckers, Loquisha.
With the calendar screaming at me that, once again, America’s most spendiferous holiday, Christmas (otherwise known as X-Mas, Christ Mass, or Tacky Blowup Santa Claus Lawn Ornament Day), was fast approaching, I took a trip down to the Spend-O-Mart on Crunkner Boulevard this Wednesday and spent the entire 68¢ that I had kept safely squirreled away in the bottom of my buttocks, and another 6¢ that I found in the gutter along Horatio Hornblower Street near the stumblebum stables. For a total of 73¢ (the penny I found got stolen before I hit the store), I was able to buy Loquisha an entire candy bar: a Milky Way… king size. My sandal-footed little darling will be so happy, I just know it!
On Thursday, I found another 11¢ by scrounging through the storm drains and the cracks in the sidewalks. Other guys living in cardboard forts (no one but I, Phillip Norbert Årp, named his cardboard fort, though!) get money from passers-by, but for some reason, whenever I try the same, I get beaten with purses, stuck with umbrellas, or sprayed with mace. I guess no one appreciates my in-your-face, hands-on, have-at-you approach to beggary, nor my vociferous exhortations about my former trained-assassin neighbor, Samuel Dreckers, planning to storm Fort Flabberwocky and kill me in my sleep by enchanting the tadpole commandos to chew my skin off and dance along my skinless corpse.
Another 54¢ and I can buy myself a genuine bagel tomorrow! With poppy seeds! I’m so happy!
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’Twas the night before Christmas
Prostituted on December 24, 2006
Tags: feet, toes, ankles, Alyssa Milano, Britney Spears, Emma Bunton, Geri Halliwell, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Melanie Brown, Melanie Chisholm, Spice Girls, Victoria Beckham, death, fez, gnomes, gorillas, rat-fighting contest, sandals, Loquisha.
’Twas the night before Christmas, in my makeshift house,
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
Her sandals were hung by the chimney with care,
In the hope that Loquisha now soon would be here.
The gorillas were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of ’Lyssa danced round in my head.
My Alyssa was barefoot—and I in my hat:
That’s the fez that I’d won in a game fighting rats.
So luscious and sexy, Alyssa’s young feet,
And her ten little toes, all so slender and sweet!
All those curves from her heels to her long, lovely toes,
And her arches, her instep, her soft and smooth soles!
I gazed on her naked, small feet as she danced:
They were lithe and so sleek, as around me she pranced.
And then what to my wondering eyes did appear?
But a girl in pink sandals—the blonde Britney Spears!
And she danced with Alyssa, and ’Lyssa with her.
Soon the sandals were gone, which is what I prefer!
She spun ’cross the floor, then she kicked them aside,
With a snap of her ankle and a twist of her thigh.
How my dream kept improving as it carried on!
(As if four feet to play with was not enough fun!)
And right then out of nowhere she suddenly jumped—
’Twas Jennifer Hewitt—in red leather pumps!
Her eyes—how they twinkled! Her ankles—how luscious!
Her soles were alluring, her toes so delicious!
She spoke not a word, but went straight to her work,
She slipped off her stockings, then turned with a smirk.
And so on my dream continued to unfurl,
It was then they appeared: the five sexy Spice Girls!
And as soon as they’d slipped their feet from their high boots,
They had joined in the party, cavorting about.
I had eight girls in total, eight pairs of feet!
Eighty toes right in front of me! Lord, what a treat!
I howled and cheered them on in their game,
And I whistled and shouted and called them by name:
“Alyssa, my dancer! Now, Geri and Mel C!”
“On, Britney! On, Vickie! On, Emma and Mel B!”
“To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!”
“Now dance around! Prance around! Dance around all!”
They danced and I watched, I watched as they played,
With their feet all a-twisting and their toes all a-splayed.
But right when I thought it could not get any better,
It was over so soon, all that fun barefoot patter.
The sound of their bare feet all slapping my floor,
Was suddenly replaced… with a wheedling roar.
A wheedling and needling noise filled up my home,
And then I was surrounded: by hideous gnomes.
My eyes then exploded right out of my face,
There were millions of gnomes all over the place!
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to gnomes down below.
I looked back behind me, saw gnomes in a horde,
I looked down below where out more and more poured!
With a shriek and a cackle of, “I’ll have the last laugh!”
I leapt out the window to my certain death.
How I cackled insanely as I fell forty floors,
I knew then that I’d see all these gnomes nevermore.
With the ground fast approaching—a terrible sight,
I screamed, “Happy Christmas to all, and—
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Fort Flabberwocky was a myth!
Auld acquaintances forgotten on December 31, 2006
Tags: feet, bouillabaisse, cockroaches, death, flatulence, gnomes, goats, gorillas, Perfect Strangers, pwee, sandals, seamanship, sex, singing spiders, Samuel Dreckers, Loquisha, sister.
Apparently, rumors of my house being eaten by an aroused Tandy were a bit exaggerated: It seems that, in all truthfulness, yours truly had shot himself out of his chimney after once again going on a particularly violent farting spree—remember the HMS Gormless Bastard?—and, after landing amongst a pile of shingles, old cardboard boxes, tires, and random electronic equipment (a sign called the place a “town dump”), I simply imagined the rest. No salacious computer eating my house. No makeshift cardboard house dubbed Fort Flabberwocky. No cockroaches chewing off my skin. No singing spiders coming to mock my misfortune. No little, sandal-footed Loquisha coming to visit me for Christmas—she went to my real house on Bouillabaisse Boulevard and couldn’t find me. And when Samuel Dreckers told her he’d last seen me erupting from my chimney and travelling along a graceful parabolic arc toward the north end of town, she laughed and didn’t believe it!
She didn’t believe it! First I ate her candy bar myself, spitefully—then I dumped that skank like the three-hundred-dollar whore that she was when I had first met her.
I returned to my house this morning, and quickly went about celebrating the Last Day of the Year™ by stripping down to my socks, pasting sheets of tinfoil all over myself, and running around my lawn in circles, going “Pwee, pwee, pweeweewee!” and waving my arms like a gorilla in heat. (You’ll be pleased to know that the gorillas—the real ones—are still safe in my spare bedrooms.) I then proceeded to find the nearest gnome hole, whereupon I filled it full of gasoline, lit a match, and ran like bloody soddin’ hell. Those gnomes are not coming back to Pnårp’s house ever again!
After calling my dear sister Plårp (to compliment her on her lovely feet!) by dialing 1-800-COLLECT and then shouting at the operator to connect me, lest I beat the phone with a wet noodle covered in schmaltz, I got ready for the real party tomorrow—the one with all the goats!
Happy new year, boys and girls!
Happy new year, Larry Appleton, you lipless bastard!
Happy new year, Balki Bartokomous!!
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