Pnårp’s June, 2007 midwives & alewives

Ol’ Grummie’s back!

Bungled up on June 3, 2007

Tags: feet, toes, ankles, Alyssa Milano, Britney Spears, Jennifer Love Hewitt, asshattery, buttocks, California, death, eigen, feces, fez, freebirding, gnomes, gorillas, Hell, nose, Pam and Meg, pigtails, sandals, sex, Mister Wilson, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker, Harry Whyte.

While freebirding around town today, I ran into an old friend of mine, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker. We’ve known each other for years; the only reason I’ve never mentioned ol’ Grummie on this here “web plog” of mine is that I only just met him for the first time today.

He was just coming out of the asshattery on Wiggensworth Street (Harry’s—right next to old Thad’s haberdashery) while I was heading in. Like the old gentleman that he always has been for the approximately eighteen seconds that I’d known him, he tipped his hat cordially to me as he passed—a beautiful new asshat, it appeared, that he had just bought at Harry’s.

“Hey, Grummie! I haven’t seen you in years! How’ve you been, old chap?” I shouted as we crossed paths, startling him immensely. I’m not sure why he acted so surprised—certainly he remembered I knew him from so short ago. I persisted: “C’mon, Spoogie, you remember your old pal Pnårp, right? From northern California, wasn’t it?”

I tried to remember the last time I’d never seen this man before in my life. Northern California, Mr. Wilson’s short-lived final resting place (before going to Hell) came to mind first, so I went with that. Much like invading France by tromping across Belgium, it seemed like a good idea at the time. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, ruminating over my accusations of his knowing yours truly from somewhere or other. Or some mother.

“I—” he began, but I cut him off before he could confuse the issue with denials and questions.

“Grummie, old chap, let’s go have lunch—we can discuss everything there. I hear they rebuilt Pam & Meg’s again, and they serve up a mean plate o’ shit-on-a-shingle. What do ya say, pal?”

“Uh, who the h—” Again I cut off his protestations, by grabbing him by the collar and dragging him along with me to the new Pam & Meg’s. I resolved to return to Harry’s Asshattery later on to purchase a new asshat to replace my worn out old fez; right now, I had more important things to attend to—stuffing my face at Pam & Meg’s along with my newest old friend whom I’d never seen before. He struggled a lot, but after I clomped him about the head and shoulders a couple times, he resigned himself to joining me over shit-on-a-shingle at the new Pam & Meg’s.

“Phillip! Our favorite customer! And who’s this you’ve got with you?” Pam herself greeted me at the door with a warm, patronizing smile—not unlike the smile a mother gives her toddler after a series of endless exclamations of “Hey, Mom! Look at me!” She was wearing the most adorably revealing sandals I’d seen in months, her toes splayed wide for the world to see.

“This here’s Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker, an old pal of mine from the asshattery down the street! You can call him Grummie, or Spoogie. Say hi, Grummie!” I tried to sound as nonthreatening as I could.

He did that fish-gulping thing again, his eyes darting from me to Pam to the doorway, a helpless and dumbstruck look on his face. I clomped him over the head again with his own asshat. He started to squawk again, so I cut him off before he said something we’d both regret. “—So Pam! Let’s have a seat, shall we? It’s just me and Spoogie here.”

Pam nodded and led us to a table near the alley where Pam & Meg’s dumps its trash. Ol’ Grummie looked ready to bolt. I grinned and gabbled about the gnome-killing expedition he and I had gone on three years earlier. He didn’t remember, and it seemed to only make him more agitated when I kept mentioning swords and “running ’em through the bellies with their own little fezzes.” The third time I made a stabbing motion with my hand, at his belly, my eyes all wild with thoughts of gnomeslaying, he blanched and nearly swooned. I mocked him for being a big baby.

Meg brought over our shit-on-a-shingle: grade A chipped beef, smothered with something reminiscent of ol’ Spoogie’s surname, and served on a house shingle—no clapboards for us, no sir! Meg dropped the slop on our table and sauntered off. I thanked her kindly and ogled her sandaled feet as she withdrew, then I turned my attention back to ol’ Grumfeld van der Something.

“So, Grummie… how ya been?” I asked cordially as I poured the shit off the shingle and shoved the shingle, whole, up my left nostril. Much to the chagrin of the other customers, I started making loud honking noises as I waited for Grumfeld to come up with a good answer. Despite the honking, my severe countenance left no doubt: His answer better be good—damned good—or he’d be walking out of Pam & Meg’s wearing his ass for a hat. If he walked out at all. He gulped a bit, took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.

“I’ve been just swell, Phil—just swell.”

“And the kids?”

“They’re doing good too, Phil. Little Ahmenotep just turned five, and lost his first baby tooth last night. You should’ve seen the look on his face when he found it in his ear!” Grumfeld chuckled.

I smiled. “See?” one of the voices in my head said to me. “He was fakin’ all along—he remembered you!”

“No, he doesn’t! He’s a clever liar! And he’s one of those Schmongeling Gnomes too, I tells ya!” another voice suddenly piped up.

“Shut up! Shut up!!” I screamed, pounding my fists on the table. Shit, shingle, and utensils scattered everywhere. Grummie turned even paler as he watched my gesticulations and goonflayvinations. I growled and squirmed; I couldn’t let Grummie know I knew he was a gnome. I tried to think of something else—Alyssa Milano’s supple young feet—Britney Spear’s toes—Jennifer Love Hewitt’s ankles—but nothing prevented the image from forming. There in front of me, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker slowly transformed into a bearded and befezzed gnome of the worst kind: a Schmongeling Gnome from Westphalia. I picked up a butter knife and smiled sweetly at him. In soothing tones, I said, “Grummie… don’t move… just hold sti—”

I lunged.

He squealed like a little pig still in his girltails and bolted, overturning the table, and tripping yours truly with a chair. Utensils, shit, and shingle went flying every which way, some landing on me, some on the other customers. A glob of chipped beef hit the ceiling fan and sprayed everywhere. Pam shrieked. Other customers jumped and foamed. Grummie darted out of the restaurant like a snail darter on crack cocaine, flabbling about some maniac trying to kill him. Poor guy. He sounded crazy.

[Feetnote: So what happened to Ravna and the ravening, ravishing gorillas, you ask, dear readers? Well, after they got her on the floor, they… no, you probably don’t want to hear about that part. Well, the gorillas are gone, and they won’t be coming back for a long, long time. Ravna’s fine—well, she is now. Sort of. Mostly…]

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Back to Harry’s

Ingratiated on June 10, 2007

Tags: asshattery, buttocks, fez, gnomes, gorillas, homburg, porcupines, sex, Loquisha, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker, Harry Whyte.

On Friday this week, I returned to the asshattery on Wiggensworth Street, intent on buying myself a new hat to replace my old ones: the fez that had worn out, and the homburg that Ravna stole in a vain attempt to fend off two powerful gorillas in heat.

Harry Whyte, sole proprietor of Harry’s Asshattery, greeted me cordially as I entered his store. His cordiality at first put me in mind of a certain Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker, so I very nearly slew him with my bare hands, having concluded he must be a Schmongeling Gnome of equal rank. But fortunately, I was quickly gripped in the firm, cold hand of sanity and reason before such an eventitude transpirated.

“Harry! Harry, show me what you’ve got in burnt umber!” I requested in an equally cordial tone. “My old fez wore out—or it was carted away by the gnomes living under my floorboards; I’m not sure which, honestly—and I need a new hat. So I was considering perhaps an asshat, and thought you might have just the thing.”

The salesman’s smile never left his face, even when I brought up the gnomes under my floorboards. If he had so much as blinked, I’d’ve known he was one of ’em—and Harry Whyte would be wearing his own ass for a hat, as sure as my name is Phillip Norbert Årp.

He took me over to a rack of asshats along the back wall. None were burnt umber. There were maroon asshats, crimson asshats, asshats in khaki both light and dark—but no burnt umber asshats were to be found. He tried to convince me a particular Butt Bros. model was burnt umber, but I saw through the ruse—it was sepia, God damn you—and would have none of it. He got a little less happy at that point, but he was still interested in trying to sell me something.

“Okay, Harry, how about a paisley one? Do you have anything in paisley?” I humored him. No one made paisley asshats anymore, not since the Paisley Suit Riots of ’78. But if he could deliver, I’d buy it. (It was at that moment an army of trilobites passed by outside the window—an ominous sign if there ever was one.)

He grinned broadly and led me toward a door behind the counter. “I’ve been saving these for almost thirty years, Phil! And you’re the first unwitting idi—customer, I mean—to want to buy one in all these years! Just don’t let them say Harry Whyte didn’t try to warn you, if you step outdoors wearing one of these babies!”

“Warn me about what?” I inquired, lithe porcupines at the ready.

“I won’t try to warn you,” he said and left it at that. Then he opened the door.

Paisley asshats. Boxes of paisley asshats as far as the eye could see. He had at least sixty—six hundred—six hundred and sixty six—boxes of paisley asshats in his stockroom, stacked up to the ceiling and in rows five deep. More paisley asshats than you could shake your booty at. More than even little Loquisha could shake her big black booty at. “I’ll take forty-five hundred and twenty-two!” I blurted before my mind and larynx registered any sort of connection.

“Sold!” Harry rubbed his hands together at the thought of unloading half a dozen boxes of paisley asshats on an unwitting idi-customer such as myself, whatever that is. Well, I’d told him I’d take 4,522 of them, so I couldn’t rightly back out now, could I? I swallowed, pulled out three dollars from my wallet, paid Harry, and hefted the boxes up on top of my head. I resolved to try to wear all 4,522 asshats—still boxed—at once. The sale completed, Harry shooed me out the door and, as I departed, began cackling madly, “Don’t let ’em say Harry didn’t try to warn ya! Kiss my hai…”

The rest of his chortling was firmly out of earshot, so I forgot about it at once. I sauntered home, 4,522 paisley asshats now firmly in my possession.

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Paisley time

Enslaved on June 17, 2007

Tags: feet, Britney Spears, asshattery, bouillabaisse, buttocks, cornpones, feces, geese, gnomes, goats, God, gorillas, pwee, sandals, sex, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, Harry Whyte.

Contrary to Harry Whyte’s expectations, and contrary to all logic known to man- and gorillakind, I made it home safely with all 4,522 paisley asshats perched atop my pointy little head. Nothing eventful happened. Nothing at all. Not even gnomes popping out of the wainscoting and hurling merry epithets in my direction. Not even canned cats coming to life and mocking me about being in my refrigerator and “eatin’ my foodz.” Nothing. Nada. No poopie. Well, maybe a little poopie, but nothing else…

So, on Monday, I boldly stepped outdoors wearing one, single, unboxed paisley asshat. At first, I thought no one would even notice—there wasn’t so much as a single turned head or shout of “Death to the paisley-wearing pervert!” to be heard. I was becoming nervous and mildly aggravated. I adjusted my asshat and began my journey with one single step.

That proved to be highly useful, so I took a second step, and then a third. I sauntered on soggily down Bouillabaisse Boulevard, the goatburping park on Shoehorner Street being my final destination. I had decided I’d proudly display my paisley asshat for all the world to see at the park, most likely while stripping naked and break dancing in the Gnome War Memorial Water Fountain.

This all proved easier done than said.

Turning onto Frummwich Drive off of Bouillabaisse Boulevard, I went still unmolested and unnoticed, paisley asshat or no. Trotting down the street, beeping occasionally, murping and burbling to myself about Britney Spears singing “I’m a Slave For You” while barefoot, I flailed my arms occasionally, pointed to the uniquely patterned hat resting upon my cranium, and at one point, even stopped someone to remind them what Harry Whyte often tells his customers to kiss. Other than shock and indignation at my decidedly crude language, there was no untoward reaction toward my enhatted self at all.

Nary a word about the paisley asshat was to be heard.

At two o’crock, I arrived at the goatburping park and began my customary chant:

Removing all garb in which I was enswaddled, except my paisley asshat and a strip of dyed-purple bacon wound around myself in a strategic location, I continued:

I started flapping my arms up and down and spinning about madly, trying to get someone—anyone—to notice my heretical paisley asshat! But no one cared! Not a one! Old Harry Whyte had lied to me about the power of the paisley asshats! Yet I went forward with my devious plan, a bit desperately now:

I attracted the attention of a small school of mallards, and a single Canadian goose who seemed to recognize me, but nothing else. Nothing at all! For the love of God and all that is holy (such as Enoch and the seven dwarves), what had I bought all these paisley asshats for!? I began to panic at the thought of boxes of asshats rotting in my closet for all eternity. Perhaps—perhaps I could feed them to the gorillas! But wait, I had expelled the gorillas over their inappropriate use of Ravna. I had to think. Think, think, think. Suddenly, it came to me: I resolved then and there to eat a peanut butter sandwich filled with cornpones.

And still nothing amiss had happened with the slowly madding crowd. Not even anything remiss had happened yet.

Realizing the crowd couldn’t read my thoughts, I re-resolved to eat a cornpone-impregnated peanut butter sandwich that night—out loud. One woman snickered. A man goonflayvined at me. A little girl giggled and shuffled in her sandals. An old man metamorphosed into a goat and belched loudly. I suddenly had an epiphany as to why the park was named as it was. But still not a person noticed the heathenous asshat enveloping my noggin.

Returning to the task at hand—attempting to enrage a crowd of filthy peasants to murder me with pitchforks over my effronterous asshat—I began gabbling and squawking about the impending invasion of asshat-wearing Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes that a little doodie had told me about when I fished him out of the public water closets on Twitterby Street. People gawked. People balked. People even borked. A few porked each other in the shade. But no one flew into a mobbish rage over my hat shaped like an ass and patterned in elegant paisley.

“People! People, but—but, but, but… it’s a paisley asshat! Paisley!” I shouted under the abortifacient skies as the clouds circled dolefully above my head; a waaambulance pulled up alongside the fountain. “Asshats! Gnomes! Gnomes! Gnomes!”

After another six tortured verses, it became plainly obvious to even me that nothing was going to happen beyond the occasional goat wandering by and belching softly. So, six hours later, I picked up my tattered clothing, stuffed everything into my triangular briefcase (I always have it on me!), and went home. Pwee, pwee…

[Feetnote: Dejectedly, I returned all 4,522 hats to Harry Whyte on Tuesday morning. He wasn’t smiling this time.]

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Press any key

Pressed on June 24, 2007

Tags: toes, Spice Girls, California, death, eigen, gnomes, goats, gorillas, insect goddess, nose, Pam and Meg, porcupines, triangular briefcase, Mister Wilson.

My CPU running at 80%, disk drives spinning, I pressed the any key and awaited further instructions. Beyond a new message, “Press F14 to continue” in elegant twelve-point FixedSys, none were forthcoming.

“That’s not right,” I intoned quietly while a single garden gnome darted across the linoleum. Puzzlement.

I looked for the aforementioned key and was unable to find it. On a hunch, I prised a few keycaps off, ate them, and looked around under them for the elusive fourteenth function key. I found none, so I began methodically disassembling the keyboard from left to right.

A hundred and five keys later, I was still no closer to F14—although my belly was full of chewed plastic and I felt like outbelching even the burpiest goat in the goatburping park. Puzzlement and befuzzlement.

“Okay,” I murmured to myself, obviously having bungled something up crummily, “Perhaps the key can be found inside the computer!” I went to work with a screwdriver and pair of pliers, quickly reducing the computer to a pile of useless plastic and silicon. I quickly devoured the parts that weren’t outright poisonous, and then proceeded to slowly consume the remaining chunks of heavy metal–laden circuitry.

The bitter taste of PCBs and coltan still in my mouth, I then proceeded to disassemble the CRT, first ripping out the lead and copper components and devouring them with the same gusto I had bestowed upon the motherboard. Still, no F14 key was forthcoming, and I was now developing a raging stomach ache and audiovisual hallucinations involving four gorillas and five Spice Girls in a king-sized bed together.

“…Must …find …fourteenth …function …key,” I drawled, frothing at the mouth and swaying from side to side as my stomach tried in vain to digest five pounds of plastic and rare earth metals. Lead, tantalum, and cadmium coursed through my veins, slaying the lithe porcupines normally taking up residence therein. Spots appeared before my eyes, most of which then paraded about mocking me and calling me names. One amorphous spot even morphed into Strahazazhia Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps, insect goddess, and displayed her six-legged delights before my very eyes.

It was only moments later that I keeled over, died, and for a short while joined my old pal Mr. Wilson in northern California.

It was incredibly boring listening to him go on and on and on about proper cat-canning methodology and planning, so I resolved to continue my search for the elusive F14 key—thus, I quickly devoured his head while he spoke. He barely noticed.

Reconstituting myself in corporeal form, I slogged down to the nearest computer store and demanded a model with an F14 key. The proprietor, Sam (I hear he’s Pam’s sister—Pam from Pam & Meg’s!), let out a guffaw the size of an open-source gnu and told me no computer had been manufactured since 1834 with an F14 key. I grumped and burbled and demanded he find me one at once, lest his delicate-toed sister suddenly find herself sans one brother. He quickly produced a keyboard with an F14 key.

“A forgery!” I shouted and rubbed off the clumsily written “F14”, revealing the true label: “Scroll lock”. I gasped at him and demanded to know how dare he produce such a bumsy forgery. He sputtered and gulped like a fish out of gasoline for a few moments while he tried to compose an answer that would save himself from my razor-edged triangular briefcase.

“Well, I did just produce it right now!” he whined. I would hear none of it—I lopped his head off with the edge of my deadly valise, right then and there. It fell to the floor with a soft plop, rolled across the tiles not unlike a bowling ball with hair and a nose, and came to rest next to an iPod display. His body still stood there dumbly trying to show me keyboards and sell me warranties on hardware I wasn’t even trying to buy. I took a quick look around, then swallowed the keyboard whole, cranched a few times, spat out a few stray keycaps, and waddled out of the store. I sure hope Pam won’t be mad at me.

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