Pnårp’s January, 2007 domesdays & bomb bays

Music erupted from my bed cushions again

Strafed on January 7, 2007

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, AK-47, buttocks, Carpathian Mountains, dogs, feces, goats, nose, Mister Wilson, Fyodor Vyacheslavovich Tvalashvili.

Music erupted from my bed cushions again today, as I once again bagged a dog (by the tail!) and passed a burrito (out of the hole below my spine!). My Carpathian Yapping Hound (Yappie—he’s such a good dog!) bit the neighbor’s Carpathian Stinking Hound (Smelley—man, does he ever smell!) on the tail. Yappie’s such a good dog, and Smelley does smell so very much.

Unfortunately, the neighbor (hey, it’s Fyodor Vyacheslavovich Tvalashvili! I didn’t know he came back from Georgia! He doesn’t look too happy…) was really ticked off, and started beating Yappie with a toothbrush glued to a garnering-pole (stop that!). I had to put a stop to that at once, so I took out my trusty AK-47, lubed her up real good, and shot Fyodor Vyacheslavovich’s flower pots full of holes.

“No one beats Yappie and gets to play with it!” I howled at Fyodor Vyacheslavovich infuriationally, playing with mine (fap! fap! fapfapfap!) furiously and getting ready to beat Yappie into seven pieces myself if my idiot Georgian (he really is an idiot) neighbor didn’t stop. (No, wait, that’s not right… why would I beat Yappie myself? I’m confused now… damn you, Fyodor Vyacheslavovich!) But my neighbor was again nonplussed by my flowerpottery, and again he tried to draw a plus sign on my nose, after trying to have me trampled by a whole trampoline full of goats (real Belorussian Trampling Goats). I rebuffed him, stripping down until I was in the buff, then I punched him between the eye sockets with my left foot (pow! biff! zork! Alyssa!).

His eye turrets spun in both directions. He emitted a noise much like a wineglass being thrown very, very hard against cheap aluminum siding bought by a dupe after seeing it featured on an infomercial at 3 o’clock in the morning. Much like Mr. Wilson, Fyodor Vyacheslavovich couldn’t stand a good foot-punching, so he collapsed, quivering, into a rather compact pile of bowdlerized (and bamboozled! …Where’re all these parentheticals coming from, anyway?) goop, which quickly flowed into a small Q-shaped puddle, which was quickly lapped up by Yappie (he’s such a goat!). The next day, it was deposited on the sidewalk—in the compact form of a doggy turd (a smelly one!).

Poor Fyodor Vyacheslavovich (poor flower pots, full of holes now!). All he wanted to do was beat Yappie with his garnering-pole.

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Suing Alyssa Milano

Bombarded after January 14, 2007

Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, Christina Applegate, Geri Halliwell, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Lucy Lawless, asshattery, buttocks, death, gnomes, gorillas, nose, Perfect Strangers, screaming stars, stumblebums, triangular briefcase, Samuel Dreckers.

This entire website is a violation of my civil rights! And Balki Bartokomous’, the poor naïve Mepiot! Consarn it, and may you be condemned to hell, you Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes, for depriving me of my right to see Alyssa Milano’s pretty little feet! We all know it was you who put up this website, displaying to the whole world my obsession with celebrities’ feet.

After informing my lawyer how badly this website violates my civil rights, especially my right to safely enjoy Alyssa Milano’s feet in the privacy of my gorilla-infested home, he and I decided to sue. First we sued my web hosting provider, but they just responded by bombarding my inbox with spam and pelting me with cans of old sausages. We then tried to sue the Schmongeling Gnomes, but they had buried themselves so deeply in the ground, we couldn’t find them. I demanded my lawyer sue the pile of old tires behind my garage next, but he called my request “stupid,” so I called him a “moron,” so he punched me in the nose—so we both went back to the drawing board.

I and my lawyer sued each other next, but that only resulted in a few thousand dollars being flushed down a toilet (literally—I thought the toilet was an ATM!), and acrimonious accusations of asshattery directed at my lawyer from me, and more recriminations and rebuttals hurled at me by my lawyer and his butler.

Next up on my Big List o’ Suggestions was my triangular briefcase (incidentally, where I kept the list). My lawyer congratulated my ability to remember said briefcase’s long list of aliases (including the infamous “isosceles valise”), but then we hit upon a small snag: We couldn’t figure out how to file a brief against a briefcase, no matter how brief it was (the brief, not the briefcase), so we again clawed our way back to the drawing board amidst a whole pile of accusations and new recriminations.

My sleazy lawyer quickly scratched out the rest of my Suggestions, offering fresh insults for each: Lance Armstrong, the screaming stars, my broadband provider, Ted Bundy, America Online, Christina Applegate, Larry Appleton, the government of Mepos, our own Mayor Julian Rhoodie, the stumblebum stables on Wiggensworth Street, the stumblebum stable keeper, the stumblebums themselves, Tila Nguyen, Samuel Dreckers, Lucy Liu, Cordwainer Smith, President Piggy-Man, whoever pressed the R key on my keyboard thirty-seven days ago, Bill Gates, James T. Kirk, Augusto Pinochet, Osama bin Laden, Hsu Chi (and her feet), the gold bullion cube I keep for a pet, Agamemnon, Xerxes, Pericles, Julia Louis-Dreyfuss, Lucy Lawless, a pack of sodomites from Sodom, Jeremy Bentham, Neve Campbell, Karl Marx, Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria (“He’s dead, you imbecile,” my lawyer offered snottily), Chiasa Aonuma, and Aika Miura—and her feet, too.

Finally, we figured out the proper party to sue: Alyssa Milano’s feet. Well, I determined this, to be exact; my lawyer called me a “magnificent idiot” and refused to file a lawsuit against someone’s feet, no matter how enticing (entrapment! entrapment!!) they were. So I filed it myself, this Friday, at 14:28:57½ in the morning, at the courthouse on Hegelian Avenue. It only cost $3.50 and some embarrassment as I had to explain to the clerk that the form not only named “Alyssa Milano’s feet” as the defendant, but also “Jennifer Love Hewitt’s toes” and “Geri Halliwell’s arches” as unindicted co-conspirators. As soon as he figures out how to serve Alyssa’s feet a court summons, the lawsuit shall proceed!

I’ll see you in court, Ms. Milano—and your litigious little feet, too!

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Phillip Norbert Årp v. Alyssa Milano’s Feet

Machine-gunned on January 21, 2007

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano.

The trial fizzled out as quickly as it began, when Alyssa Milano herself showed up, and proceeded to beat me senseless with her purse. The judge just giggled and watched as yours truly got beaten to a pulp by the delicate Ms. Milano. (Alas, her feet were safely hidden away in a very unattractive pair of galoshes, which I suspect she wore entirely because of me.)

The judge dismissed the case as soon as I lost consciousness under the merciless pummelling I was receiving, and the next thing I knew, the lovely Alyssa Milano was filing a lawsuit against me—for harassment!

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Alyssa Milano v. Phillip Norbert Årp

Entrenched under January 28, 2007

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, buttocks, Carpathian Mountains, death, dogs, flabble, flatulence, hotdogs, insect goddess, porcupines.

As I prepared for the trial this Thursday, I was as nervous as a Drano-soaked hen caught in a wet noodling contest with nary a wet noodle to be seen. All I ate for dinner the night before was an oil drum full of beans, seven hotdogs (the inflatable kind), and a tank of helium. My pores slithering lithe porcupines rampantly as I set foot in the courtroom, I slinked into my seat beside my lawyer (a new one—anyone who refuses to sue Aika Miura’s feet is never going to represent me ever again!) and pretended I was only two feet tall, trying to hide behind the table like a four-year-old.

By the time the judge entered the chamber, I had built myself a fort out of the files my lawyer had brought with him, much like a four-year-old would do when faced with the threat of a harassment trial over his foot fetish. I hid within my manila-colored fort—which I had dubbed Fort Incarpathianable, in honor of my Carpathian Yapping Hound, Yappie—and awaited the judge to start exhorting me to come out and face Alyssa Milano like a man.

“What the devil is Mr. Årp doing under all those file folders?” the judge boomed as he entered the courtroom.

“Phillip’s not home! Go away! Woo hoo-hoo hey!!” I shouted, my nerves tying themselves in knots and releasing more lithe porcupines to slither along my veins and out my pores. I felt my gut start to quiver. My small intestine did the Fandango beneath my stomach.

“Mr. Vlabbitteehoothie, is your client not well?” I heard the judge begin to question my lawyer, but suddenly it seemed all so far away—much farther than the few miles it really was. The judge droned on, my lawyer responding with excussion followed by excussion relating to my misbehavioralisms, but I couldn’t hear him over the rumbling, grumbling noises coming from my lower colon.

“Oh, dear,” I suddenly intoned, groaning as I hunkered down inside Fort Incarpathianable. I prayed to the voluptuous insect goddess Strahazazhia Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps that I was wrong about what was about to happen.

“Wh—what is wrong with him?” the judge asked my lawyer sharply. “Is he having some sort of medical goonflayvin? A paroxysm of oogle-boogling? What is that terrible bubbling, burbling noise—it sounds like a kerfrumpt mating with an unwilling schtumpfenbeast—coming from under those file folders?!”

“Oh, dear! Not again!!” I shouted, springing out from under the folders and landing on my hind legs atop the table. I held my gut tightly with my forelegs, as my belly quavered and quivered, rattling the whole room from rafters to floorboards. “Not now! Any time but now!!” I began singing the national anthem, loudly, and off-key. Poor Ms. Milano looked lost at what was going on around her.

“Mr. Årp, compose yourself this instant, or I’ll hold you in contempt of cou—” the judge began. He never had the chance to finish elucidating his threatmongery, for it was at that exact moment that it finally happened. The poor judge would never have the chance to elucidate anything ever again, either.

Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly: It happened, once again. First with a hiss, then a pop, followed at last by a squishy, wet rumbling, building to a deafening roar of “phbthpbhtphb!!!” echoing throughout the halls. Before I completely grasped what had occurred, I found myself being propelled through the air, hundreds of feet above the courthouse, screaming, “Ay, ay-ay, ay-ay-ayy! Ya-ha ya-haa ya-haaaa heeee!!!” as my buttocks flapped and flabbled horrendously, shooting such flames beneath me as to provide sufficient thrust to have forced me off the table, through the courthouse ceiling, and along a graceful ballistic curve ending who-knows-where.

It was another disastrous farting spree. Fort Incarpathianable was history—blasted to heck and back—as was Engelbert Vlabbitteehoothie, Esq., and Judge Gerhardt Groompkin. And, unless I missed my guess, I had just killed Alyssa Milano.

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