Pnårp’s August, 2007 feldwebel & oberst

Plårp goes home

Sent home on August 5, 2007

Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, death, feces, grues, stumblebums, sister.

My dearest silken-footed sister, Plårp, went home on Monday. I, petrified at the thought of leaving the safe haven of my pitch-black closet (grues! grues! hiding everywhere!), didn’t quite figure this out until Friday, however.

Monday afternoon, when I started clamoring for Plårp to bring me my daily ham-and-spam sandwich, I received no answer. An hour of shouting and clamoring resulted in no sandwich, so I continued hooting and chirping for another two hours until I was hoarse as a horse off course. That plan having failed in its entirety, I sang the “Horst Wessel Song” by Horst Wessel for the next six hours, at the top of my lungs.

My ham-and-spam sandwich still failing to materialize in the hands of my nimble-toed sister, I started hurling myself against the door and walls of the closet in aggravation.

I did this for about four days. Slam, slam, slam!

On Friday, I accidentally knocked the closet door off its hinges. I probably could have just used the doorknob, but it was more fun and dramatic this way. Squeezing my pupils shut tighter than a sheep’s sphincter, the first sight to splash violently against my corneas was a view of my computer, sitting quietly on the desk about six feet from my closet. It was on.

I shrieked in horror and retreated to the farthest reaches of the closet, curling into a fetal position and jamming my thumb in my mouth. This was, unfortunately, the same end of the closet I had been employing as a makeshift commode, so lying here wasn’t the least bit pleasant. But it was better than being eaten alive by my computer!

After wallowing there for a little over six hours, I finally found enough courage (it was hiding under the mound of feces!) to tiptoe carefully out of the closet, crawl on my belly across the floor toward the computer, and try to determine once and for all if it was truly the merciless engine of death which I had come to believe it was.

It took until 7:89 PM on Saturday for me to slither nervously (not so blithe now, I am not) toward the computer, get myself up into a kneeling position, and fearfully press any key to disengage my Alyssa Milano screensaver. During this uneventful trip across the floor, I realized my dearest sister Plårp must’ve abandoned me, and taken her scrumptious feet with her.

I squealed in horror as the blood-red desktop reappeared on the screen. It was all true! It was going to kill me! I leapt to my feet, and before the dastardly machine had a chance to do its dastardly deeds to yours truly, I had smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces with its own mouse and keyboard. I then ran screaming from my house, setting fire to the structure as I flew out the door, just to make sure the computer was good and dead.

[Feetnote: With my evil computer smashed and my house a smoking pile of ruins, I’ll be spending the next several weeks living in the stumblebum stables on Wiggensworth Street. An old stumblebum named Willie offered to let me borrow his computer (he called it an apple, but it didn’t look like a piece of fruit to me—more like another hideous engine of death) so I could type this up and share it with all my dear readers.]

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I did not forget about Hitler!

Livingroomed on August 12, 2007

Tags: toes, Adolf Hitler, death, sister.

A long, long time ago, I forgot about Hitler. Then, years later, I nearly forgot about him again. But not again: This time, to make sure I would never again forget about Adolf Hitler, nor his wife and family, I posted a large Post-It note on the front of my refrigerator that read:

Hitler: Never forget

Hopefully, I would never again forget about little Adi again.

[Feetnote: What happened to the charred carcass of my house and smashed computer, you ask? Uhh… hallucination. Never happened. After I had come shooting out of the closet, shrieking like a child crying for his mama, I did not in fact smash the computer, nor did I burn down my house—in truth, I had gone straight to the bathroom where I sang to my faucets and fixtures in German for the next sixteen hours. And my ham-and-spam sandwiches? Plårp—bless her slender little toes!—had left a whole stack of them on the kitchen table before she so heartlessly abandoned me to the tender mercies of my nefarious PC.]

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Dugongs abound in my ear canals!

Tiled over on August 19, 2007

Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, death, dugongs, gnomes, gorillas, oatmeal cookies, sex, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir.

I awoke this Friday morning to the sound of music once again erupting from my bed cushions. This angered me, so I set fire to my bed cushions, and, for good measure, immolated my collection of broomsticks and even the pile of moldy oatmeal cookies I had been keeping on the floor of my pantry. The oatmeal cookies writhed and screamed in pain as they blackened, shriveled, and went up in thick, greasy smoke. (That ought to teach the little buggers not to spy on me ever again!)

Howling in fury at the sudden eruption of cacophony from the pillows in my sleeping room, I gruffly pushed past the pile of lawn gnomes accreting in the doorway—hanging from the door jambs, swinging from the rafters, drifting, twirling, whirling, and swirling, as such Bavarian Piling Gnomes are wont to do—and hurried out into my kitchen to ferret out the conspirators responsible for the nefarious music-eruption plot. As I bounded into the kitchen, dugongs started pouring out of my ear canals like so much tepid bathwater, barking and yelping like dugongs are wont to do when they’ve been plucked from the ocean and jammed into someone’s rather small but extensively hairy ears.

I fell to my knees and began prying up the evil ceramic tiles covering the kitchen floor, as more and more dugongs flopped out of my ears and began piling up on the floor around me. These dugongs were big. I mean, really, really big. They flopped around, beating on me with their flippers and demanding the return of their stolen “bukket,” but I pressed onward, intent on getting to the bottom of the conspiracy even if it meant digging straight through my kitchen floor and down into the basement.

And then I’d dig my way to China if need be.

“You’re all against me!” I shouted to the abortifacient skies looming balefully overhead, only visible through the cracks in the duct tape covering my kitchen windows. (I taped up the whole place to keep the gorillas from returning! Poor Ravna.) “Each and every one of you murderous tiles! Evil tiles and vile dugongs! Vile dugongs and evil tiles! Out of my house forever!”

Remembering poor Ravna and the gorillas only increased my blinding rage by a factor of at least 65.423002. I began pounding my fists against the destroyed floor in front of me, at last breaking through—and then falling through—into the basement below. Unfazed except for three broken bones and a six-inch gash on my forehead, I stood up and started to tear that place apart, too. Boiler, circuit breakers, washer and dryer… nothing was spared. Protesting dugongs flopped through the hole above me and condemned my act of destruction and demolition, but I would not cease—I tore the entire place apart trying to find the bed cushion music conspirators, alas to no avail.

As my house was once again transformed into a disaster of epic proportions, I collapsed due to exhaustion around 6:45:23 PM on Friday. I dozed peacefully for fourteen hours, dreaming of an endless forest of legs, feet, and toes belonging to Alyssa Milano. (Toes make good leaves!) I only awoke after the bed cushions had once again started blaring “Gargle my Arglebargles” by Three Fat Fish. (From what my moles in the music industry tell me, this song topped the charts from 1983 to 1999—but it isn’t entirely clear which charts my hairless, naked little friends mean.)

How these musical bed cushions had made their way to the basement still eludes me as I write this. But the bed cushions themselves—now disguised as a series of mysterious plastic pipes attached to the wall—would elude me not one whit.

“Arglebargle?!” I bolted from the cement floor and began ripping the obviously fake plumbing from the walls with my bare fingernails. “Arglebargle!? Or fooferah!?!” Water began to spray everywhere. Slamming my head into the cement walls, while whining like a petulant little girl, had little effect on the blaring music, so I once again set fire to everything around me, including the very water pouring from the destroyed pipery.

(Allergy information: Phillip Norbert Årp was manufactured on the same equipment that processes tree nuts.)

The fire, quite naturally, spread upward and outward from the basement to engulf my entire house. I ran out of there faster than a baseball bat out of hell, squealing in panic as flaming bits of wood, tar, and plaster fell down around me. The gorillas, bellowing and howling in fury as they emerged from my spare bedrooms, quickly followed me out the door, poor Ravna in tow. The dugongs exploded one by one, their bloated bodies unable to handle 9000 °C of anger-driven flames.

Again homeless, I settled down for a nap on my front lawn as the neighbors gathered around once again to stare and gawk at my latest antics… and to quietly conspire amongst themselves to continue their plots to ruin me.

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Indeed I can go home again

Returned home on August 26, 2007

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, AK-47, death, dugongs, fez, gnomes, semper sic tyrannis, sex, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir.

By the time I had regained consciousness on Monday evening, my house had somehow reassembled itself from the broken and burning bits of wood and plaster that had littered my lawn only days earlier. Smelling a conspiracy once again, I quickly burned the place down a second time, but this time the house only rebuilt itself quicker—before my very eyes. Sensing the futility of the situation, I gave up and let the evil house stand. My neighbors continued their plotting.

This Wednesday I actually returned to living inside the house, instead of camping in the front lawn with my (formerly roof-mounted) AK-47 at the ready. Semper fi, bitches. And a little semper sic tyrannis for you too, Mr. Lincoln.

But for the extensive fire damage, my moldy old home looked as good as new—even the dugong carcasses had somehow removed themselves. Quickly dismissing the concept of “ghost dugongs” that had returned to claim their corporeal forms so they could continue to haunt me for the rest of my days, I set about fixing the place up: painting over the soot stains on the walls and charred cracks in the floors, stopping up all the gnome holes that had suddenly appeared, and caulking the electrical outlets so they could never again be used. The work was extremely slow and tedious, there being at least 157,238,789 gnome holes to stuff full of old socks, but I somehow completed the work in less than a day. I think that, in my haste, I forgot how to read a calendar and was actually able to compress about six months of real time into a single day.

Having torn up the last bits of my 2006 calendar featuring twelve lovely pictures of Alyssa Milano in various barefoot poses, I sat down on the newly tiled kitchen floor to admire my handiwork: fire damage artfully painted over as if it never existed—gnome holes all stuffed full of dirty socks, the gnomes suffocating to death within—evil kitchen floor tile carefully replaced with benevolent linoleum—every incandescent lightbulb smashed as a lesson to the rest of them—not a single oatmeal cookie in sight or on site.

Then and there, I cracked open my refrigerator and crafted a mosaic art out of two bologna and cheese sandwiches. It was the most fun I’d ever had on a kitchen floor in my entire life, except that time with Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir and a tub of margarine. I lay back on the floor and slept for the rest of the week, happy dreams of Alyssa Milano’s dancing feet interspersed with terrifying nightmares of armies of grim-faced gnomes coming to pluck my eyeballs out and drill into my brain with their sharpened fezzes.

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