Pnårp’s February, 2007 Eratosthenes & Hippocrates
| Jury-rigged on February 4, 2007 |
| Devoted on February 11, 2007 |
| Cashed in on February 18, 2007 |
| Vanquished on February 25, 2007 |
Alyssa Milano lives!
Jury-rigged on February 4, 2007
Tags: feet, toes, ankles, Alyssa Milano, buttocks, cows, death, feces, flatulence, Fluffernutter, gnomes, hornswoggling, nose, schtupp, smurfs.
I finally made landfall this Tuesday: My furiously flapping buttocks having run out of thrust at last and all the fuel stored in my lower colon having become depleted, I finally began my howling descent back to the hard, hard earth below. With a sickening—and slightly amusing—thud, I landed head-first on a stretch of land that looked as if it had been used for a Patagonian cow-schtupping contest not too long before. Landing in a cowpie as deep as the height of six men and three smurfs is the only thing that prevented my soft, mushy, pinkish-gray brains from being splattered all over the countryside.
After digging myself out from the cowsquishie, I stood up, went “Murp!” once or twice in an attempt to disenhornswoggle myself from the abortifacient skies looming over my head, and then began exploring my surroundings. The skies stared balefully down at me; the shrubbery and flubbery surrounding me taunted and jeered. I felt as if I were only 16¾ inches tall. A tiny hornet landed on the tip of my nose and stung me. Off in the distance, a hog snarked.
I sure wasn’t in the United States anymore.
After falling repeatedly in mile-long cowpies, and wallowing playfully in as many as I could, I became sure of it: This stretch of countryside had most definitely been used for a Patagonian cow-schtupping contest, most likely within the last three days! That was bad news—the worst news I had heard since the Great Fluffernutter Deluge of ’58 had wiped out 17.569201% of my hometown—so I high-tailed it on out of there as fast as I could!
But the cow-schtupping revelation was only the tip of the iceberg of bad news that had found itself crashing into my skull not unlike the iceberg that slew the Titanic so many years ago. On my way back home from this alien land, I had not one, not four, but 310,509,211 run-ins with none other than… Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes! At each intersection with which I intersected, at each crossroads over which I crossed, at each fork in the road into which I stuck a fork (and spoon), I was bombarded by pile upon pile of… mile upon mile of… file folder upon file folder full of… Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes. They were all decked out in their golden parachutes: Wheedling and needling, nattering and flattering, capitulating and flatulating, they came at me, one by one, two by two, 567,801 by 567,801—until I screamed like a little girl and hid in the shrubbery, waiting for them all to pass.
The shrubbery didn’t like that one bit, so it expelled me violently. I dug a hole with my toes and hid there instead.
Once the danger was averted, and *69 was pressed, I skittered home screaming the Iranian national anthem at the top of my lungs and waving my hands salubriously over my head; I wore nothing more than my old fedora and a slice of pepperoni tied about my ankle. (That’s an old gnome-repelling trick, so I’ve been told.) Fortunately, I arrived home in one piece.
Upon my arrival, I finally heard some good news: Alyssa Milano is alive, along with her pretty little feet—both of them, and all ten of her toes (toenails included)! Thank you, Lord! Apparently, she had come to court prepared for my gluteus-maximal shenanigans, and had scampered out of the room a few seconds before my buttocks had launched yours truly through the domed ceiling of that unfortunate courthouse on Hegelian Avenue. But she’ll never try filing a lawsuit against Phillip Norbert Årp again, that’s for sure! Phbthpbhtphb!!!
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Shekels at the cat-canning plant
Devoted on February 11, 2007
Tags: feet, Jennifer Love Hewitt, buttocks, gnomes, stumblebums, Mister Wilson.
On Monday, after blorpling on home from my job at the cat-canning plant, I was met with the biggest surprise of my life: Apparently, I don’t really work at the cat-canning plant. The canning plant manager, a man by the name of Wilson (…sounds familiar… I think I know him…) told me that this so-called “cat-canning plant” doesn’t, in fact, exist, and as far as he knows, there’s no such thing as a canning plant anywhere that cans cats. Cats can’t be canned, he told me. Catfood, yes, cat tails, possibly, cats themselves—no way, no sir, he told me.
Well, he didn’t say “sir,” he said something more along the lines of something that’d get my dear old website stricken from its hosting provider if I typed it out here. Began with an F, if I recall. And I do recall. I’m gonna call his mother next and let her know what I think of her cat-canning-manager of a son. Bloody son of a…
So, anyway, after punching him squarely in the temporal lobe for intoning that cat-canning plants can’t exist, and further implying I didn’t work at one, and finally insinuating that I was a jobless sponge that lives off of charity by skulking around the stumblebum stables, I huffed on out of there and went back to my real job: orbiting the stumblebum stables languorously, cupped hand in the air, waiting for people to pelt me with pennies, nickels, and perhaps shekels if they feel so inclined.
I spent much of Wednesday doing the same. I tried to go to my Wednesday job at the horse factory, right next to the cat-canning plant, but the foreman there told me to go home, because he wasn’t really the foreman of a horse factory at all, but a “Mr. Wilson” who works at a bee-polishing shop on Goldfarb Avenue! I asked him if the bee-polishing shop had any openings, but he told me no: Apparently the last opening was filled with a rubber stopper and the place is sealed up quite nicely now. Alas.
So I went home, sad and dejected.
On Thursday, I accidentally went to my Friday job (I have a different job each day of the week, mind you) at the hobnobbing house, and got booted out on my bottom by a barefoot Jennifer Love Hewitt. I skulked back to the stumblebum stables and tried my Thursday job on for size: wearing a T-shirt two sizes too small and waving my arms madly over my head while I demanded pennies and pfennigs from passers-by. That didn’t go well this week—not at all.
I went back to the hobnobbery on Friday (the hobnobbery on Hobgoblin Street, not the one on Pinnfarben Street) and got booted in the buttocks again by a barefoot Jennifer Love Hewitt. I thanked her kindly and went on my way, satisfied that cat-canning plants can’t really exist. With my buttocks sore, I idly wondered if cat-planning cants exist. Perhaps they can’t, either.
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Digging up the back yard
Cashed in on February 18, 2007
Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Britney Spears, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Spice Girls, bouillabaisse, gnomes, gorillas, stumblebums, Mister Wilson.
Finally becoming tired of my life as a transient indigent this week, and beginning to consider an existence comprised of hovering around my town’s stumblebum stables to be irksome, to say the least, I decided to give it all up and go home once again. After all, home is where the heart is, and it’s where I left my very own cardial organ last week when Mr. Wilson ripped it out of my chest and nailed it to a wall after he found out about the voicemail I left his mother. So, I blithely slithered in through my front door and welcomed myself home with a surprise party—a party that only I knew about, until it got so loud it blew out Mr. Wilson’s windows and he boxed my ears with a boxing glove. At that point, I invited all the neighbors over, so long as they came barefoot, but no one wanted to set foot in my palatial house—all those gorillas in the extra bedrooms frighten some people, apparently.
After the party was over, I sat to think a bit. Since my attempts at earning a living by shouting at people for pennies had failed once again, I decided to dig my savings out of the back yard and attempt to subsist on that. After exhuming seven of the 55-gallon drums full of $20 bills and medieval gold coinage, I decided that was enough for the foreseeable future and meticulously filled the holes back in, lovingly covering each with a piece of sod. I couldn’t leave a single trace of activity in my back yard, lest the lawn gnomes awaken and throttle me for disturbing their sacred underground abodes beneath my back yard.
My savings exhumed, I proceeded to buy up all the property surrounding my homely little home and boot out the neighbors. The first to go was Mr. Wilson: I gleefully handed him the eviction notice myself, riding up to his front door in the bucket of the very bulldozer that would, ten minutes later, turn his house into a pile of rubble. Cackling madly as the ’dozer tore into his house and he ran about the front yard, screaming and howling in anguish, I rushed to the next house and informed them that they, too, would be evicted in exactly nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds.
Within a few hours I had safely secured for myself and my posterity every square cubit of land on both sides of Bouillabaisse Boulevard, from one end to the other. Within another few hours, every house but my own was reduced to a smoking pile of rubble: smoking because after the bulldozers tore ’em down, I dynamited the suckers just for fun! Bam! Bam! Bam, bam, bam!! And by nightfall, with my ex-neighbors scattered throughout the land and lamenting the losses of their lands and women, I had erected defensive walls about my street, forty feet high and twelve feet thick. The finishing touches involved a moat, forty-six gun turrets installed along the walls at strategic points, and a ceremonious renaming of Bouillabaisse Boulevard to the Alyssa Milano Footpath. Three side streets—Witherspoonworth Lane, Frummwich Drive, and Apple-Latchier Circuit—would soon be renamed Jennifer Love Hewitt Lane, Spice Girls Drive, and Britney Spears Circuit (she’s got fine feet, too!).
Pretty awesome what seven barrels of cash and gnomely treasure can do for little old Crazy Phil, ain’t it?
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No one expects the Schmalkaldic League
Vanquished on February 25, 2007
Tags: feet, toes, Jennifer Love Hewitt, bouillabaisse, eigen, fez, geese, gnomes, goats, hornswoggling, nose, pigtails, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, Countess-Prelate, Genevieve, Haldûrburðgar.
This week began uneventfully enough: All day Monday, most of Tuesday, and at least a small sliver of Wednesday (henceforth known as “Eigenday” not only in Eigentoria but in my little kingdom too now!) was spend receiving supplicants from far and wide, all coming to pay tribute to their new lord and emperor, I, Phillip I.
Mr. Wilson and Samuel Dreckers came to me first, pledging their fealty and offering themselves up in the service of Bouillabaissia, my freshly minted kingdom. Samuel Dreckers, highly-trained assassin, was appointed to guard my fortresses, store houses, outhouses, and duckponds. Mr. Wilson, being a highly useless individual, adept at mostly nothing and completely untrained at a multitude of useless skills, was put to work washing my stables and goat pens with a toothbrush and a single handkerchief. Let that be a lesson to him next time I beg for work at his cat-canning plant!
Regina Maria-Theresia Louisa Ilsa Ollanthorpe, the fair Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg, and her lovely daughter Genevieve, offered me gifts of silver, gold, lapis lazuli, some Kleenex, and a flock of geese totalling 57,600 gooses. I graciously accepted their tribute, and also accepted Genevieve into my harem, over the squawking, goose-like protestations of her mother. As for the Countess, I banished her from Bouillabaissia forthwith. Samuel Dreckers did a fine job of chasing her off with his threats to “enhornswoggle your floozie-ladles and disenjudge your groompkins!” and his liberal use of the new trebuchet I had bought him. I thus added southern Moravia to my “Places to Conquer” list.
Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir offered me her bare feet, along with her toes, which I gladly accepted.
Haldûrburðgar himself, with a glorious retinue of 768,001 Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes in train, paid homage to my greatness on Wednesday morning. Watching the knobbly little knave bow and prostrate himself before my porcelain throne, his little white beard and pointy crimson fez jiggling glibly, sent me into a giggling fit like a little girl still in her pigtails. I took the thirty talents of gold he offered, thanked him kindly for his homage, and then had him—and his entire gnomely retinue—impaled on stakes as a warning to the rest of the gnomes. Thousands of little gnomish corpses are still mounted on toothpicks along the castle walls to this very day.
On Wednesday afternoon, Samuel Dreckers got his first chance to demonstrate his warrior prowess when the kingdom came under the sudden, furious assault of forces led by Charlie Witherspoonworth V, son of Charlie “Fwappity-Do-Da” Witherspoonworth IV, whom I had assassinated back in 2005 over a trio of pie-eating skanks and some graffiti. It seems ol’ Charlie—we called him “Smackity-Goo-Bah” back in the day—took as a personal insult my renaming Witherspoonworth Lane after Jennifer Love Hewitt, and he just had to avenge himself. If only he understood the sublime perfectitude of the fair Miss Hewitt’s exquisite feet and slender toes, our little conflict could’ve been resolved so much more peacefully. But, alas…
Alas, he showed up at the palace gates on Wednesday, frothing at the nostrils, eyes crossed and screaming epithets, waving a small hatchet over his head, and threatening to lay siege to Bouillabaissia until I relented and renamed the street after his moldering old daddy.
I scoffed. I laughed. I twiddled my thumbs. I twiddled Ravna’s toes. I even chortled a bit. Then… I crushed him. Dreckers, along with an army of 131,072 Schmongeloid conscripts, defended the kingdom valiantly. Charlie V was quickly overwhelmed by phalanx upon phalanx of heavily armed gnomes; he succumbed almost immediately to their deafening wheedling and needling. I didn’t even have to call up my old pals from Schmalkalden, although I did briefly consider deploying my tactical schmaltz bombs. His army of one defeated and broken, his hatchet nestled snugly in the cleft of his buttocks, Ol’ Charlie went home sullenly—while Witherspoonworth Lane remained Jennifer Love Hewitt Lane and firmly in my possession.
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