Pnårp’s July, 2007 borscht & bratwurst
| Lost before July 1, 2007 |
| Indentured forever after July 8, 2007 |
| Plopped down on July 15, 2007 |
| Popped up on July 22, 2007 |
| Lopped off on July 29, 2007 |
The missing fourteenth key
Lost before July 1, 2007
Tags: feet, cows, eigen, schtupp, stumblebums.
Today being July 1 meant that yesterday was June 30. And yesterday being June 30, the day before was required under penalty of death by cow-schtupping to be June 29.
Why is this important, you must be asking by now. Well, I’ll tell you why it’s important: Each and every one of these days is Eigenday in Eigentoria. Even June 28 was Eigenday, as was June 27 and June 26. My eigenfriends haven’t confirmed it yet, but I’m under the impression that June 25 and even June 24 were also Eigendays.
Why is that important, you must be asking now. Well, I can answer that whiny little question too: In Eigentoria, no one cares what day of the week it is—so they call ’em all the same thing! Those Eigentorians just churn out new eigenfactors and eigenvectors from the eigenfactory daily, never stopping, never ceasing. Thousands of impoverished immigrants from Digitopolis and Dictionopolis slave away in the factories for a hundred and seventy hours a week, meticulously crafting each eigenvector and eigenfactor on the eigenpresses and shuffling them down the eigen–assembly line. The work is grueling, but the foremen are cruel and uncaring so it gets done nonetheless. Apparently an eigenbullwhip between the eigenshoulderblades can be quite the eigencouragement!
And why is that important, you ask? Oh, you don’t ask that. Excellent, dear reader. You clearly see that knowledge about the Eigentorian sweatshops, filled to the brim with grimy, barefoot immigrants from afar, is intrinsically important.
Lastly, you must be asking (shush—I don’t care if you actually are) about my quest for that elusive F14 key.
Fortunately, I was able to locate an antiques dealer in possession of an 1834 megacomputer manufactured by IBM. He assures me that, in addition to the 15,000 wheels and pulleys making up the central processing unit, the machine does have a genuine F14 key on it’s twelve-foot keyboard (“it’s more of a lever,” he told me over the phone). He further told me that if I could supply him with a 250,000 square foot warehouse, and at least 3,600 unskilled laborers to spin the wheels and pulleys by hand, he could deliver the computer to me in four days. On Friday I stole the warehouse from a stumblebum named Jimmie, and I called my eigenbuddies in Eigentoria today and asked if they could spare some peons from their sweatshops. And they can!
So, soon, soon… soon I shall find a genuine F14 key!
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3,600 eigenserfs and a function key
Indentured forever after July 8, 2007
Tags: feet, death, eigen, flatulence, stumblebums, sister.
The 3,600 eigenserfs arrived on Thursday, all neatly packed in a 45-foot shipping container. “Just add water and flog hourly,” the instructions said, which I dutifully followed to the letter.
I set them milling about the stolen warehouse with nothing much to do until the megacomputer was delivered. It finally arrived yesterday, packed into 365 U-Haul trucks. The truck convoy was an amazing sight to behold. And with that many eigenslaves to do my bidding under the cruel lash of a genuine eigenbullwhip, the megacomputer was unpacked and fully assembled in a mere sixteen minutes.
It took six men to operate the “keyboard”—more of a “control room” if you ask me—so I pressed five eigenslaves into duty manning the other stations at the controls while I placed my butt firmly in front of the large metal lever labelled “F14”. I was giddy with excitement and made no secret of it in front of my poor, downtrodden eigenslaves—it was a genuine computer with a genuine F14 key! I chortled with glee, stomped my feet, and rubbed my hands together like a clichéd cartoon villain about to dispatch his hordes of wingèd monkeys to devour the hero alive.
“Ready, slaves!” I hollered, eigenbullwhip ever at the ready. My eigenassociates told me if you let your guard down for even a minute, these eigenslaves will revolt just like that! So, my guard stayed firmly up in the air.
I wrapped my cold, bony fingers around the F14 lever and prepared to throw it into the “on” position. (My fingers were especially bony this time of year because I blew all the flesh off playing with fireworks on Wednesday.) Once again I checked that all 3,600 eigenserfs were at the ready—a couple quick cracks of the eigenbullwhip across their corneas got a few lollygaggers to stop their dawdling. “Ready, slaves! …Ready …set …power ’er up!”
3,595 impoverished and desperate eigenserfs moved like clockwork to power up the warehouse-sized megacomputer. Wheels and pulleys set into motion, motors whirred, steam engines revved and brilliant white steam belched from the four separate exhaust manifolds—the IBM Mark IV ARCHAIAC megacomputer pulsed to life. The five barefoot eigenserfs seated at the controls next to me oohed and aahed as the machine hummed and lamps across the control panel blazed. I cackled madly and, with a dramatic flourish, threw the F14 level on.
The lever clicked into place with a loud click that went “click!” For the first second, nothing happened. During the second second, I felt a faint electrical buzz slowly begin to fill the air in the room, which, in the third second—I think it was the third; it sort of gets all hazy here—burst into an excruciating and blinding blue explosion of melting, white-hot death that vaporized the five eigenserfs surrounding me and sent me flying into the air hundreds of feet above the computer-filled warehouse.
Briefly I wondered if my unpredictable bowels had chosen that exact moment to initiate another disastrous farting spree, but judging by the arcs of terrible blue destruction shooting from the warehouse below me—very far below me—and the flames engulfing much of my body (which was also covered in third- and fourth-degree electrical burns), I was able to rule this out quickly.
That’s when the airplane hit. I had just reached the apex of the graceful ballistic curve upon which the goddess of electricity had just so cruelly set me, and had just started to descend, when suddenly I was serving as a hood ornament for a very fast-moving and frightened-looking 767. After this, I don’t really remember much. I was probably killed or something.
I awoke in the hospital this morning, in about six pieces. Quickly collecting myself and suturing the pieces together with my own short hairs, I hobbled out of the hospital. All I remembered at first was something about an F14 key that looked more like a lever, and that I had had 3,600 illegal immigrants in my employ. Fortunately for me, the ARCHAIAC explosion seems to have vaporized all 3,600 of the poor buggers and left not a trace that even a warehouse had formerly stood on Wiggensworth Street near the stumblebum stables.
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Plårp!
Plopped down on July 15, 2007
Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Spice Girls, death, feces, gnomes, nose, pwee, sister.
My brother writes this week:
As I mentioned last week, dear readers, a computer tried to kill me, so now I’m deathly afraid of them—therefore, I’ve asked my dearest sister Pollyanna Louisa Årp (or as the family calls her, Plårp) to post this for me on the Internet tubes. If my dear readers have forgotten, Plårp has the cutest feet I’ve ever seen—they’re even more scrumptious than Alyssa Milano’s little lovelies!
Anyway, not much happened this week. Not much can happen when you’re hiding in a hole in the ground worried sick that your own computer is trying to murder you and will end up succeeding if you ever again show your face in front of it’s pale blue screen of death. Since that’s mostly what I was doing this week, not much happened.
Let’s see… stayed in the hole… went “pwee-pwee!” a lot… soiled myself thoroughly… enjoyed pictures of Alyssa Milano, the Spice Girls, Britney Spears, Jennifer Love Hewitt… all of them barefoot… ate, drank, slept, slew a legion of tiny, tiny gnomes in my spare time… had to sew my nose back on after a rat bit it off… ’bout it for this week, dear readers.
Now, it’s off to deliver this bare-bones missive to my dearest sister Plårp so she can copy it onto the computer and I can cower in fear on the other side of the room, perhaps taking a moment or two to ogle her feet and toes while she works.
See you next week, readers! Pwee, pwee, pwee!
Sincerely,
Phillip Norbert Årp
P.S.: My brother won’t stop staring at my feet while I enter this for him into his computer. I think he’s gone even crazier than usual lately. Send help at once.
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Plårp, Plårp!
Popped up on July 22, 2007
Tags: feet, toes, grues, nose, pwee, sister.
My brother writes this week:
It’s pitch black in here. Am I likely to be eaten by a grue?
Sincerely,
Phillip Norbert Årp
P.S.: After I told him to stop trying to take photographs of my feet, my brother locked himself in his closet and started stuffing umbrellas in his mouth and nostrils. I think he’s going to end up hurting himself. Now he won’t come out of there until I give him back his camera. When I try to get him to open the door, all he says is, “Pwee, pwee, pweet! I want to see your feet!” and “Pwee, pwee, pwoze! I want to see your toes!” and then starts kicking at the door and making choking noises. Send help at once!
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Plårp, Plårp, Plårp!
Lopped off on July 29, 2007
Tags: toes, Adolf Hitler, Ambrose Burnside, George W. Bush, Afghanistan, death, Englebee Troobles, grues, pwee, urine, sister.
For much of this week, Phillip just made a lot of animal noises in the closet. Finally, this morning, he slipped a note under the door with the following scribbled on it, in what looked like crayon:
It’s awful dark in here. Where are all the grues hiding? I know one’s going to eat me!
Ambrose Burnside spoke to me again a couple days ago: He said something about Adolf Hitler chewing on George Bush’s tail. I don’t know what that means, but it sure was pweefully funny and made me laugh a lot! Then he said something about the Englebee Troobles and I had this crazy flashback to when I was in Afghanistan looking for them and got my face gnawed off by rats in a prison! That was fun, too! The flashback was so vivid I wet myself!
P.S.: Do you have any more umbrellas out there, dearest delicate-toed sister of mine? I swallowed two and the third got jammed in my sinuses. Help!
P.P.S.: How are your delicate little toes, Plårp?
Sincerely,
Phillip Norbert Årp
P.S.: The facts speak for themselves! What more do you need!? Won’t somebody please drag him off to the looneybin!?
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