Pnårp’s March, 2007 teenyboppers & estoppel

131,072 Schmongeloid conscripts

Decimated on March 4, 2007

Tags: toes, bouillabaisse, death, dingleberries, gnomes, God, insect goddess, nose, pigtails, Samuel Dreckers, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, Haldûrburðgar.

Apparently keeping over a hundred-thousand Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes as a standing army has its downsides. For example, they tend to get uppity when you don’t feed them for a week or two, and then they tend to revolt.

Mine did that this week.

Even Samuel Dreckers, trained assassin, was no match for 131,072 ravenous, open-mouthed Schmongeling Gnomes from Westphalia. They came in droves, wheedling and needling in insatiable hunger, swarming all around him as he tried in vain to fight them off with the tenth-century trebuchet he stole from the French.

Unfortunately, trebuchets are not particularly useful at close range—nor against thousands of tiny opponents, each a mere four inches tall. Gnomes in chariots engulfed him. Within minutes, they had devoured him completely, leaving behind nothing but the trebuchet—and his corneas. Gnomes don’t like corneas.

His last words were “Aaaaggghhh!!!”

Once again, I scoffed. I laughed. I twiddled my thumbs. I twiddled Ravna’s toes. I even chortled a bit. Then… I wet myself, panicked, and fled like a little girl still in her pigtails. Hiding in a hole proved less than useful, as Schmongeling Gnomes are excellent tunnelers, and climbing a tree proved even less useful, as they can fly, too. (My Schmongeling Gnomes have wings. I bred them that way, and I’m damned proud of it. Crossing them with moths and bullfinches was hard, grueling work…)

Unfortunately, my clever breeding tricks proved to be my undoing. Flying gnomes. Flying Schmongeling Gnomes, flitting up and swooping down on poor helpless Pnårp as he hid amongst the branches of a ficus tree and prayed to the voluptuous insect goddess Strahazazhia Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps and her six-legged delights for salvation. Poor Phillip I, nearly devoured by thousands of tiny flying gnomes. Nearly. But not quite. Oh, no, you see… I had a secret weapon.

Panic. Pure, unadulterated panic. I flew out of there like a bat out of hell: whiter than a ghost, madder than a hatter, hornier than a toad, grunkier than an old geldingwhale, more enspulminated than a caffeinated Lorax after a run-in with a whole platoon of Oncelers. I shrieked, I screamed, I squealed, and I bellowed. I pawed madly at the air like a cornered duck. I spun about like a lioncow in a cage (a small one). I stripped down to my drawers and paced about in terror and confusion. I cried out for salvation from the thousands and thousands of tiny, tiny gnomes—Strahazazhia, save me, O thirty-toed one!—swarming about the tree, flying and diving, swooping and creeping, buzzing and needling and wheedling, crawling up the trunk and throughout the branches, closer now, oh yes, crawling, closer, crawling, crawling, closer, closer, creeping and seeping, swarming, swarming—oh, my Lord!—they were everywhere!

And then I flew out of that tree on the frogblinted stewback of a borfnoggler gunflaven, nary a floompkin horse-hockey whacka-doodle in goe, nor a swivenroach perfelted near cathentious varnieblones—that I did, yes, that I did—out of the ficus tree, out of the leaves… up the branches, out the top, into the air, flying, flying, soaring, soaring… Gnomes, gnomes, Gnomes, gnomes, Schmongeling Gnomes, dongling Schmongeling Gnomes…

But even then I wasn’t fast enough! Upon me they swarmed, over me they crawled, up my nostrils they burrowed, wheedling and needling, wheezing and whizzing, trying to devour me too—their lord and emperor, their sovereign, Phillip I, most serene monarch, protector and pooperscooper of Bouillabaissia! How dare they! And …now I had another secret weapon!

Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. Red, storming, rip-snorting, tearing rage. I screamed, I howled, I stomped them all to death—one by one, ten by ten, handful by handful, toeful by toeful. I crushed them all: I destroyed them, obliterated them, annihilated them, granticulated them thoroughly—caving in their tiny little skulls as easily as I slip on a pair of slippers when I go wandering about the woods at 3:00 AM for a midnight snack consisting of dingleberries and raccoon pouches.

With the rebellion put down, I returned to ruling over Bouillabaissia with an iron fist cleverly concealed beneath kid gloves. Haldûrburðgar would be proud of me. If I hadn’t squished him flat! Heehee hee hee heeee!! Haw, haw, haw!!

Pah! Now I need a new army…

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Eight years

Anniversed four days before March 11, 2007

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Spice Girls, bouillabaisse, death, Englebee Troobles, feces, geese, gnomes, pwee, screaming stars, seamanship, terrorism, Countess-Prelate, Genevieve.

This Wednesday, between putting down rebellions and stamping out dissent wherever it cropped up, I was able to celebrate the eighth anniversary of the creation of this website.

Yours truly has come a long, long way since that day in 1999, eight years ago, when he sat down at his virus-infested computer to pen those immortal words: “The stars scream at me, but why? I think about it. I see his face. The stars again. Once, when I was writing something about this, a large blue speck appeared on my monitor and I was forced to shoot the damned thing.” I finally discovered what that blue speck was, just this last Monday: an improvised explosive device cleverly planted by a team of Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes—an abortive assassination attempt against Phillip I. But, not to worry, I dealt with them harshly, as any good despot would do: I rounded up all the otters in Bouillabaissia and executed them.

It was eight years ago, too, that I had the epiphany that the letter P is an amazingly asymmetrical letter. It is completely asymmetrical: top-to-bottom, left-to-right, and diagonally—however you slice it, you get no symmetry there, folks. None whatsoever. This profound fact has never been far from my squishy pinkish mind these entire eight years. Further study of this fascinating letter has revealed that it may in fact be symmetrical in the fourth dimension, but how to express such a “hyper-P” on paper has so far eluded me. But one day, I shall solve it (between torturing and executing gnomes, of course).

And the animal feces in the garage—what memories. And the Englebee Troobles, those elusive creatures I spent years questing after and never found—not really, anyway. And Alyssa Milano and her delectable feet. And Jennifer Love Hewitt, and Regina Maria-Theresia Louisa Ilsa Ollanthorpe, the Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg, and her daughter, and her geese… and all five of the luscious Spice Girls. It’s been an interesting eight years, from the exhilarating highs of captaining my own seafaring vessel, to the despairing depths of psychosis, insanity, and hallucination. The insanity was the best part. And in some ways, it’s never ended.

Pwee, pwee, pwee! I’m off to oversee another execution! This one’s is gonna be with a guillotine! Ta-ta for now, boys and girls!

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The restive provinces conquered

Excoriated before March 18, 2007

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Geri Halliwell, Jennifer Love Hewitt, bouillabaisse, cows, death, flunkery, hamsters, hogwash, horsefeathers, nose, poppycock, schtupp.

Another week of ruling Bouillabaissia, another week of rebellions, uprisings, and other miscellaneous civil strife to crush like the omnipotent despot that I am.

It started with the hamsters this week. Unwilling to sacrifice any further to support the selfish gluttony of their lord and emperor (I, Phillip I), they rebelled against the latest tax I levied upon them: the requirement that they hand over 87% of their food pellets and wood shavings for use by the imperial household. They refused, took up arms, and after a long and difficult campaign stretching across three whole hours, I had crushed them totally.

Unfortunately, with my army of grasshopper regulars now tied down in the hamster province doing occupation duty, the horsefeathers chose this time to revolt, their grievance being something about the hogwash and poppycock provinces always receiving more of the imperial booty than them. (Much like the French, I’ve always hated horsefeathers.) I had to personally deal with this crisis, stamping out and stomping on every bit of resistance and flunkery with my own two feet, two hands, and long nose. But in the end, it was another triumph for Phillip I of Bouillabaissia.

On Saturday, I dedicated thirteen new statues of myself in honor of these smashing victories. Each statue depicts yours truly in various stages of the conquests: stomping, stamping, crushing under his feet, squishing in his hands, beating with his nose, cackling insanely, and finally holding his arms aloft in triumph while scantily clad Alyssa Milano, Jennifer Love Hewitt, and Geri Halliwell swoon barefoot at his feet. Upon the statues’ completion, I promptly passed an edict demanding that every hamster in my kingdom make daily pilgrimages to each statue in order to pay homage to his lord and conqueror. Hamsters that refused would be executed by a public cow-schtupping. Within hours I had expanded the edict to cover many of my other subjects: the birds and bees, the raccoons, the caterpillars that nest in the ficus trees out back, even the bark on all the trees. And just to show those horsefeathers who’s boss, I exempted the hogwash and poppycocks! That’ll learn ’em!

All hail Pnårp, suckers!

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The laws of Phillip I

Promulgated on March 25, 2007

Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Spice Girls, bouillabaisse, cows, death, dogs, feces, geese, gnomes, hamsters, hogwash, horsefeathers, insect goddess, nose, poppycock, schtupp.

Whosoever shall take up arms against the sovereign lord and emperor Phillip I, most serene monarch and emperor eternal of Bouillabaissia, conquerer of the Hamsters, conqueror of the Horsefeathers, king of Hogwash, supreme autarch of Poppycock, protector of Alyssa Milano’s feet, Jennifer Love Hewitt’s toes, and all parts of the five Spice Girls, prince of Avia, prince of Hymenoptera, emperor and autocrat of the Raccoons, lord of the Caterpillars, lord arboreal of the Trees Ficus, grand duke of the Ducks, Geese, and all the waters, ruler of the Oaks, Maples, Pines, and Conifer territories, Schmongelslayer, protector and pooperscooper, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, shall be subjected to the following punishments:—

He shall be placed in the custody of the lord and emperor’s gnomely guards and brought to answer before the gnomely courts,

Whereupon he shall be put to the question, and if he does not confess promptly he shall be wheedled and needled until he does so,

And, if he be found guilty of lèse majesté against the lord and emperor, he shall be stripped of his lands and titles, and his socks, and henceforth be referred to as a “big doodie-head,”

He shall then be placed upon the hamster wheel and brought to the town square where all of the lord and emperor’s subjects will have been required to gather upon penalty of death by insectivores,

Whereupon he shall be subjected to a public cow-schtupping without mercy and without cease, for a period of not less than four hours and two minutes,

Whereupon, if he still be living, he shall be cow-schtupped once again, more intensely, for a period of not less than six hours and six minutes,

Whereupon, if he still be living, he shall be mocked and ridiculed endlessly, by being called a “dumbhead” and a “party pooper,”

Whereupon, if he still be living, he shall be subjected once again to a cow-schtupping forte et dure, which shall not be ceased until he prays for salvation from the voluptuous insect goddess Strahazazhia Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps, which shall not be forthcoming,

Whereupon, if he still be living, he shall be poked thoroughly with not less than forty-thousand and seven dull toothpicks,

Whereupon, if he still be living, he shall be once again be cow-schtupped, upside-down and backwards, while being forced to sing “Oops, I did it again!” by Britney Spears,

Whereupon, if he still be living, he shall be fed to a flock of poodles.

If he be found not guilty of lèse majesté against the lord and emperor, but of the lesser crime of being a dingleberry, his punishment shall be the same, with the exception that he shall not be referred to as a “party pooper,”

If he be found not guilty of both lèse majesté and of being a dingleberry, but of the lesser crime of having the name Charlie, his punishment shall be the same, with the addition that he be beaten over the head with a sack of horsefeathers,

If he be found not guilty of any of these three crimes, his punishment shall be the same, with the addition that he be both beaten with horsefeathers and hanged by the nose until dead, prior to being fed to a flock of poodles,

If he be completely innocent of any crime, and known to be virtuous by men of good standing, he shall be found guilty of having breathed the lord and emperor’s air without leave to do so, and he shall thereupon immediately become poodle meat.

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