Pnårp’s September, 2007 numerology & fakery
| Simmered on September 2, 2007 |
| Delved under on September 9, 2007 |
| Screamed about on September 16, 2007 |
| Floated by on September 23, 2007 |
| Station-kept on September 30, 2007 |
Grumfeld redux
Simmered on September 2, 2007
Tags: asshattery, corn, cornpones, death, eigen, feces, fez, freebirding, homburg, Pam and Meg, sandals, triangular briefcase, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker.
While freebirding merrily around town this week, I once again ran smack-dab into my old friend, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker. He saw me coming from about twenty feet away, and tried to run off like a frightened little child at first—but he changed his mind after I tackled him and walloped him with my steel-toed fez a few times. Resigning himself to his fate, he agreed readily when I suggested once again we go have blunch at Pam & Meg’s. I promised him there’d be no funny business with the shit-on-a-single this time… secretly admitting to myself that it would instead be hilarious business.
Realizing how awkward that last paragraph was, I decided to recite it to ol’ Grummie a few times before I committed it to this journal of mine, in order to see what he thought of it. After explaining to him in explicit detail what “freebirding” was, and demanding that he stop insisting that he’d never seen me before the incident outside the asshattery, I think he got the gist of it. I know he sure got the gist of my steel-toed fez—right across the temple! It was the sixth or seventh time I threatened him with another beating—with a titanium-plated homburg this time!—that Meg, shod in the most exquisite bright pink flip-flops I had ever seen, arrived at our table with our blunch.
“What the hell is ‘blunch’?” Grummie asked me in mild irritation after I insisted that the cornpone stew in front of him and I was, around these parts, properly called a “blunch.”
“It’s breakfast—and lunch!” I growled, making it clear I would brook no protest from the knave. He shut up at that point, again appearing to resign himself to his hopeless fate as my new best friend. My keeping a fez within reach no doubt helped him arrive at that decision.
As Spoogie sat across from me, biting his lip, glancing around, and sweating profusely, I took the first gobble of my cornpone stew… and slowly realized something was very, very wrong. Not just wrong—corn gone wrong. My eyes crossed, my face turned a deep shade of greenish purple, and my hands—under no control of mine!—suddenly hurled the bowl of cornpone stew clear across the room. It missed slamming into Pam’s head by about three centimeters before exploding against the wall of the eigencafé in a shower of gooey, golden-yellow goodness.
“Blargh! I asked for cornpone stew, not porncone stew! Blargh and flargh!” I shouted, slamming my fists into the table like an enraged alcoholic. “Corn gone wrong! Corn gone wrong!! God damn you bunglers! Flam-damn you tronglers, you unga-frunglers! Corn! gone! wrong!!” The only other customer in the place bolted from his table in panic. Grummie looked like he was too terrified to move. Both Pam and Meg ran to my side and tried to console me, but I would have none of it. I shouted, I screamed, I writhed and contorted my face like a Tourette’s sufferer. Finally, I overturned the table, and—frothing at the mouth—started beating poor, stupid Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker to death with my isosceles valise. (I bet you didn’t know I had it with me, but I did. I always have it with me, for just these occasions!)
The police were soon summoned to control the situation, and they quickly set upon ol’ Spoogie with their nightsticks, tasers, and pepper spray. Grummie didn’t have a chance. Even Pam and Meg started battering him, first with their flip-flops, then each with a pair of soup bowls, and finally with the table legs, after I had broken two off and intoned that they made wonderful weapons.
After about half an hour of unremitting assault, there wasn’t much left of Grummie but a pile of bloodied clothing, a belt buckle, and a pair of eyeballs.
Pam was so sorry about the whole mess that she happily agreed to pay for everyone’s troubles, including serving me a lifetime supply of genuine cornpone stew. All I had to do was ask. And I did. I even demanded she use real gold in the golden cornpones—not that cleverly painted lead and mercury that she’d been feeding me. Pam was elated and went right to work serving me bowl after bowl of it, until I exploded and made a worse mess of the eigencafé than Grummie had.
The cops hauled Grumfeld’s eyes off to the jail on Hegelian Avenue, and that was the last I saw of him.
Top
Under Pam & Meg’s
Delved under on September 9, 2007
Tags: cockroaches, cornpones, death, eigen, freebirding, gnomes, Hell, Pam and Meg, porcupines, sandals, Mister Wilson.
My freebirding finally caught up to me this Thursday when a horde of angry townspeople assaulted me with clubs and pitchforks, then burned my house down in retribution. Having nowhere else to go until the demonically possessed house reassembled itself in a few days (it always seems to do this), I begged Pam—and Meg—if I could sleep under a table in the Pam & Meg’s for a night or two.
They agreed that I could stay at the Pam & Meg’s, but insisted I crawl into a hole under the floorboards instead of flopping my carcass down in the middle of the restaurant under a table. I asked if sleeping in the oven would be acceptable; they refused, so I then proposed crawling behind the wainscoting—a suggestion they also refused—and finally lurking in the vast wine cellar beneath their establishment. Even this last proposal was rebuffed, in the buff, and I finally angered Pam so much that she withdrew her offer of a never-ending supply of cornpone stew, too! I was so upset that I started slowly bleeding to death in front of her (the lithe porcupines oozing from my pores serve both as blood and tears, dear readers), until she at last agreed to let me crawl into a hole under the floorboards. I happily agreed and mopped up all the blood with an old newspaper.
Bedding down under the floorboards of the Pam & Meg’s proved to be a lot more fun in theory than in practice. In practice, the crawlspace under the floors was loaded with cockroaches. And rats… and ants… and what I think was a large beaver, although it may have been an alligator with hair. But after all the dickering and flip-flopping I’d engaged in with Pam, Meg, and their flip-flops, I couldn’t go back now and tell them the four foot–wide hole under the floorboards was unacceptable! So, I toughened up and endured the cockroaches and rats and ants biting me and trying to devour my flesh all night long.
On Saturday, my house having mostly reassembled itself, I emerged from the spider hole under the Pam & Meg’s and returned home by slithering blithely through the front door. The gnomes, servants of Satan that they are, didn’t even notice. Pam sent me a bill for all the cockroaches and rats that I had accidentally taken with me. I sent her a picture of the “goatse man” I had printed out for just these occasions. Meg came by this morning, beat me with her flip-flops, and burned my house down again.
Top
Why do the stars scream?
Screamed about on September 16, 2007
Tags: Alyssa Milano, Rory Calhoun, AK-47, California, dingleberries, feces, gnomes, God, gorillas, hamsters, Jesus, nose, outer space, pwee, screaming stars, sex, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, Loquisha, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir.
On Tuesday, while sleeping soundly and dreaming of Alyssa Milano, I was once again awakened by the urgent screaming of the stars overhead. As this hasn’t happened for several months, I was quite perturbed and disturbed! Having seen Mr. Wilson’s face floating up there in the sky alongside the shrieking stars, I quickly picked up the phone and called him to make sure he hadn’t been kidnapped by UFOs or otherwise blasted into space. He promptly informed me that he hadn’t, thanked me for my concern, and reminded me that the last time I had one of these “screaming star episodes,” my car had been stolen. I went to check, and it hadn’t been—although someone had covered it in bologna and cheese, no doubt preparing to make a mosaic out of them!—so I thanked him for his concern, threatened him for accusing me of having an “episode” of any sort, then slammed the phone down in anger.
Curiously sensing that I had written about this same chain of events several years ago, I began to spin around and chant “Déjà vu! Déjà vu! Déjà vu!” over and over until I made myself dizzy and vomited forth a stream of tiny, tiny gnomes. Screaming in panic louder than any celestial body had ever screamed before, I ran out of my house (remembering not to bother trying to burn it down this time), grabbed the AK-47 off of my roof, and began firing it in the air with hapless abandon.
The screaming stars only began to scream louder!
Finally realizing I had no choice, I dug a hole seven feet deep in my front lawn and crawled in.
I waited.
And waited.
And waited, continuing to insert gratuitous paragraph breaks as I did so.
And finally…
…it stopped.
It having stopped, I slowly crawled out of my pwee-pwee hole and refrained from inserting any more superfluous <p> tags. I slithered blithely back into my house, and began assessing any damage the star-screaming had caused. I checked on the gorillas first, and found that they were fine, if a bit shaken. The gnome holes were all plugged, and the gnome pile accreting in my bedroom door was only about seven feet high. All in all, all was well. All is well. All will always be well.
I slinked back down to my pantry where my “telephone” is located, and called Mr. Wilson again to inform him of the good news—and to thank him for doing absolutely nothing.
“Thanks for nothing, you old turd-bore!” I shouted at him in place of a greeting.
“Well, you’re certainly not welcome, then, you cackle-footed monkey-rectum!” he answered, his voice shrill and indignant.
I slammed down the phone, and—
—after inserting one more spurious paragraph break—called up my old pal Samuel Dreckers to also thank him for nothing and remind him that he, quite frankly, sucked at being a trained assassin. He was upset and threatened to garrote me in my sleep when I least expected it. I chuckled, chortled, and sniggered lightly, and then hung up on him.
Having prayed to the Lord and his little boy Jesus that Wilson and Dreckers burn in northern California for all eternity, I then picked up the phone and jammed it up my nose. After pulling it out, I jammed it up my nose again, and then a third time. Afterward, I left a message on Rory Calhoun’s answering machine that consisted of nothing more than silence interrupted by heavy breathing.
Next I called Loquisha, then called her a “dingleberried hamster whore” before hanging up and calling you, dear reader, an idiot for bothering to read all of this.
Lastly, before plodding off to bed once again, I rang up Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir and let her know the gorillas were lonely and wanted to “see” her again. She accused me of using as many spurious quotation marks as I have paragraph tags, but I assured her that “‘see’” was legitimately wrapped in such punctuation: My intention was to thoughtlessly mock how my pack of gorillas had brutally ravished her on every possible occasion.
She hung up. I hung up, and went back to bed.
The stars hung up in the sky… and then began screaming once again.
Top
Why does the pi float?
Floated by on September 23, 2007
Tags: Ambrose Burnside, corn, eigen, fez, flatulence, gnomes, Perfect Strangers, pi, pigtails, screaming stars.
On Tuesday, I thanked my lucky stars that no more screaming stars had appeared for a whole week.
But on Wednesday, they did, so I cursed the very ground I stood on as I tried to gnaw my own ears off.
The next several days were a haze of confusion, interrupted occasionally by a chicken trying to peck my eyes out.
On Saturday, while munching on a cardboard box in my back yard and watching another one of Ambrose Burnside’s many televised speeches, a pi floated by. I was nonplussed, having seen floating pis a few times before. As Mr. Burnside went on and on about his facial hair singlehandledly defeating Robert E. Lee at the Battle of Mazar-e-Sharif in 2001, the pi hung in the air before me, flapping its wings and staring at me with its beady little eyes, until I finally did panic (for no reason, really). I hid behind the log upon which I had been sitting until the pi turned and lazily floated off as abruptly as it had first arrived.
After checking that no killer keyboards lurked in the underbrush, I clambered back up on the log and sat down again to finish my corrugated lunch. It had become covered in snails while I had cowered, but that didn’t stop me from devouring it with gusto and glee. Six-legged pumas notwithstanding, Mr. Burnside’s latest speech turned out to be a smashing success.
As I went about smashing my TV after old Ambrose had finish his droning, the floating pi returned, close on the heels of a small family of eigenfactors. I freaked—I mean, man, I totally freaked. Eigenfactors! Eigenfactors from Eigentoria, no doubt! But as I doffed my fez in greeting, I realized something was wrong. Something was very, very, wrong…
“Déjà vu! Déjà vu! Déjà vu! Vú, vú-vù, vúù!!” I squealed, spinning in circles at the sudden realization and tossing diacritics about like confetti. First screaming stars, now a floating pi!? I looked around frantically, knowing what would come next: lawn gnomes. Hideous gnomes. Hideous ceramic gnomes transforming into flesh and blood, donning golden parachutes, and coming to pelt me with tree nuts and moldy peaches.
Hideous gnomes. Hideous, unstoppable gnomes. (With tiny little fezzes that’re so cute!)
I decided there was only one course of action before the gnomes began to accrete and try to bamboozle me with their effusion and flutery. Déjà vu, déjà vu… what to do when you’re surrounded by gnomes and there’s no way out? I had only one choice. One… final… choice. I closed my eyes, pressed the button… and went “vroom!”
My journal wandering aimlessly for a few more paragraphs, I found myself suddenly propelled up into the air at velocities heretofore unknown to a man with nothing more than a television remote control in his hand and a slab of frozen bacon perched on his head. Was it a farting spree gone wrong? Was it corn gone wrong? I surely didn’t know, and neither did Balki nor his lipless cousin. I screamed. I shrieked. I squealed, but I decided against squealing like a little girl still in her pigtails this time—it’s a bad habit I’m trying to break. I pawed at the air, trying to slow my ascent, but to no avail.
I was clearly on my way out of the planet’s very atmosphere.
Top
Pnårp’s in space
Station-kept on September 30, 2007
Tags: feet, toes, ankles, Alyssa Milano, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Spice Girls, asshattery, Bermuda, buttocks, cockroaches, cows, death, dingleberries, eigen, environmental disaster, flatulence, gnomes, God, gorillas, hamsters, insect goddess, Neptune, outer space, Pam and Meg, pi, screaming stars, sex, schtupp, stumblebums, Mister Wilson, Samuel Dreckers, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, sister, Harry Whyte.
I once knew a man who was well-versed in the physical laws of nature. He had explained to me, when I once confided in him my ability to propel myself miles into the air by merely flapping my buttocks rapidly, and the unpredictability of the onset of such buttflapping, that so long as I maintained a velocity under a certain threshold, I would be safe: I would eventually land, somewhere, after traveling on a graceful parabolic arc across the sky. If I, however, exceeded this special velocity, I would go careening off into outer space, with no hope of ever returning to the surface of the planet except through a fiery—and ultimately deadly—course similar to that taken by a meteor.
Last Saturday, I had clearly exceeded this velocity—by a lot.
By Monday, as I vroomed onward, ever upward, my home planet had shrunken beneath me to the size of a Canadian $1 coin when held at arm’s length. I had clearly left Earth behind and most likely wasn’t ever going home again. I prayed to the voluptuous insect goddess Strahazazhia Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps, and then the Lord himself, that I would eventually decelerate and perhaps even fall back to Earth; even a fiery—and ultimately deadly—descent was preferable to spending the rest of my days floating alone in space. It’s not like I would die or anything.
On Wednesday, the Earth having shrunk to the size of a pea when held fourteen inches from one’s face, my thoughts slowly turned to everything I had left behind: Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, her milky-white feet, and the gorillas that loved her. Alyssa Milano’s ankles. The Spice Girls’ toes. Jennifer Love Hewitt’s heels and soles. My dearest sister Plårp, and her slender sisterly feet. Mr. Wilson and his cat canning plant. Samuel Dreckers and his zany attempts to assassinate me in order to prove he was, indeed, a trained assassin. My haberdasher. My asshatter. The stumblebum stable keeper I always called Ol’ Bummie because I didn’t know his real name.
The teeming swarms of gnomes that came to dog my every step. The endless rows hamsters, dingling their berries forever. The golden cockroaches. The screaming stars. The floating pi. The flying pi. The earth-shattering Bermudan pie-eating contests. The cow-schtupping. The Pam & Meg’s.
All left behind.
Not wanting to turn this “web blargh” of mine into some cheesy clip show, I turned my mind to other things, such as how to keep breathing now that I suddenly realized that interplanetary space is a near-total vacuum. Gasping like a fish out of gasoline, my eyes starting from my head, I writhed around quickly grabbing enough hydrogen atoms and pinching them together to construct a makeshift spaceship for myself. Squeezing them between my fingers until they fused into iron atoms was quite the arduous task, but, being well-motivated (the whole suffocating thing), I completed it in about twenty minutes.
Cursing my physicist friend for his bloody space-is-a-vacuum assertion, I finally powered up the spaceship—the main reactor is fueled by incinerating over 36,500 eigenslaves per second—and boarded through the airlock on deck 37. Galloping up to the main bridge like a horse on PCP, I quickly plopped myself down in the command chair and ordered the eigenslave at the helm to head for the nearest planet, at once.
The spaceship began sliding through the æther toward Neptune. We would arrive in two weeks.
Top