Pnårp’s January, 2008 expanding & throbbing

Bubble wrap and bubble butts

Thawed on January 6, 2008

Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Spice Girls, buttocks, death, dogs, gnomes, gorillas, Neptune, nose, outer space, pi, sandals, screaming stars, sex, Loquisha, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir.

Happy new year, boys and girls!

Out of the hole, I am, this week. Out of the hole, and all thawed out. Out of the hole, thawed out, and ready to take on the world again by the skin of my teeth, fists of rage dangling from my arms and clenched teeth clenched so tight I actually cracked three of them after biting my tongue off, which dutifully flopped around on the ground under its own volition until I ground it into the ground with my hobbit-nailed jackboots.

Little brown Loquisha found me in the hole, she did.

Lifted me out with her sandaled toes, she did.

Little brown Loquisha dug me out and thawed me out and warmed me up with her warm little feet, she did.

Thaw, baby, thaw… mmmmnnnnhhhh…

Then, suddenly, there were dogs. Big dogs. Big dogs landing on my face!! Dogs—and bubble wrap. Dogs, terrified of bubble wrap. A question, aside: Why are dogs terrified by sounds like this and others—specifically the sound of rattling plastic bags? I have had several dogs over the years that were absolutely terrified by the sound of a plastic bag moving around, so much so that they would run away at the mere sight of the dreaded plastic. Loquisha, Loquisha? Yet another example of newbies trying to squeeze out someone who has been there for ages. Bracing myself against the face-landing dogs, which I had so artfully wrapped in duct tape (made from real ducks!), I stapled my nose to the bubble wrap and began popping the bubbles one by one with my tongue by tongue.

Loquisha giggled and batted me with her sandals, then stomped on the bubble wrap with her bare brown feet. Stomp, stomp, pop, pop! I grabbed her by her ankles, and… ooh, ooh, ooh, ahh, ahh, ahhh!!

The gorillas taught me well. Just like they taught Ravna.

This week’s entry makes absolutely no sense, and just tends to drift around from topic, to topic, to mind-dumbening topic…

Doesn’t it?

It’s like a stream of consciousness written by a man who is, in fact, unconscious. A meandering, babbling brook of disjoint statements, badly grammar, horible speling, and shattered prose. Mixed metaphors abound like cats on a hot tin last straw off a duck’s back, and gigantic piles of smittering lawn gnomes encrust and envelop the boundaries and bordaries of every sentence. More bad grammar appear, and moar bad speling. Moar, moar! Do not want!!

—!!

I think it’s over, but then again, it never began. I think… I think about the screaming stars, all the time, I do. Each and every …waking …minute …of my pea-brained …existence. Stars. Screaming stars. With a floating pi wrapped in bubble wrap, surrounded by Alyssa Milano and her scrumptious, voluptuous feet. Ah, slender, creamy white toes, don’t fail me now…

Titter, titter: I tittered softly.

“But it’s not ’er titters I adore, it’s ’er feet!” I shouted at the wall, now also covered in unpopped bubble wrap. Hmm, unpopped. Why is it unpopped? Did I forget to pop it? Did someone else forget to pop it? Certainly Jennifer Love Hewitt would simply adore squeezing the bubbles ’tween her elegant, slender toes and …pop! pop! pop! Titter, titteree!!

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks dropped by malicious kettle-gnomes intent on murdering yours truly by dropping a ton of bricks from the fifth-floor balcony of his palatial and gorilla-infested home: Jennifer Love Hewitt didn’t have the sexiest feet. Alyssa Milano didn’t have the sexiest feet, either. Not even the Spice Girls, with their handfuls of toes, had the sexiest feet of all.

Who has the sexiest feet of them all?

Loquisha did.

Lovely, little brown Loquisha.

Lovely, sandal-footed, little brown Loquisha, even in ’er gorgeous little sandals in this Pnårp-freezing weather.

Lovely, sandal-footed, little brown Loquisha who—while yours truly was busy conquering the moons of Neptune and naming them after his little brown Loquisha—blew up like a hot air balloon, grew an ass the size of a small moon, and started doing amateur pornography under the stage name “Bubble-Butt Lo’ Kweeisha.”

Bubble-Butt Lo’ Kweeisha.

…Bubble wrap!!!

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Lo’ Kweeisha

Pornographed on January 13, 2008

Tags: feet, toes, buttocks, death, feces, gnomes, God, gorillas, nose, pwee, screaming stars, sex, squirrels, triangular briefcase, Loquisha.

[Dear Lord, I promise to make this entry make more sense. It’ll make so much sense, it’ll be like a sense-making machine. An industrial assembly line of sense-making. It’ll churn out so much sense, in parallel with massive quantities of non-nonsense, that it’ll simply awe you to death, Lord. Not that the Lord could ever actually die or something, being an immortal industrial machine Himself. Amen.]

Lo’ Kweeisha. “Bubble-Butt” Lo’ Kweeisha? No, no, no. Bubble-Butt Lo’ Kweeisha.

You get it now?

Good.

Damn butt’s so big you can get lost down there ’tween those things!

Damn butt’s so big now you could drive a truck right through it.

Damn butt’s so big now you could eat off it!

…And some people do!

Bubble butt, bubble butt, bubble-bubble, bubble butt!

Bubble wrap? Bubble boy? Squirrels in your Gatorade? My triangular briefcase… submerged in Gatorade?

Briefcase—Gatorade!

Pwee, pwee, pwee, pweedle, feedle foo! Monkey see, monkey do, gorilla eat, gorilla… goo. Gorillas infest my house, kettle-gnomes hang from my chandeliers, and guardsquirrels patrol the perimeter, looking for me so they can haul me back to Buffalo, encase me in buffalo dung beneath a pile of buffalo wings, and buffalo my buffaloes a buff below. Wait, buffaloes have wings? Screaming stars scream… and so does Lo’ Kweeisha when you do it just right. Pwee, pwee, pwee, pweedle, feedle foo!

Lo’ Kweeisha’s little brown feet, they can’t be beat! Lo’ Kweeisha’s little brown toes, right up my nose!

Bubble-Butt!

Damn butt’s so big it flaps in the wind like a pile of pancake nozzles.

Damn butt’s so big now you can play musical chairs with it all day!

Damn butt’s so big now it needs its own set of socket wrenches!

Bubble-Butt!!

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Gnomes? In my kettles?

Nonsensed at January 20, 2008

Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, AK-47, buttocks, California, death, dogs, gnomes, God, gorillas, nose, sex, squirrels, Samuel Dreckers, Loquisha, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir.

[Dear Lord, I promise to make this entry make more sense. I know I failed You last time, Lord, but I really, really tried. I didn’t mean for the guardsquirrels to come flying out of my butt each time I tried to not type “butt” again. I didn’t mean to babble on endlessly about Bubble-Butt Lo’ Kweeisha’s bubble butt and the things she does with it on video. I didn’t mean to gum up my keyboard after watching all those videos of big brown Lo’ Kweeisha riding the “Bang Bus” all night. I promise this entry will be 100% sense, and nothin’ butt. Er, but. But. But no butts. Bubble butts? But no. But amen.]

The kettle-gnome infestation in my house seems to have abated a bit this week, but I could just be imagining it. After all, gnomes of all kinds love to infest my palatial home all the time. Fortunately the Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes seem to have all died horribly—or perhaps just retired to northern California. But now, kettle-gnomes.

“Kettle-gnomes?” an inquisitive reader might ask. (Not you, dummy.)

“Yes, kettle-gnomes,” an intelligent writer might reply. (Not me, dummy.) “Kettle-gnomes are gnomes that live in your pots and kettles! They hide in the spouts, or sometimes under the handle.” But regardless of where they hide, and how often Alyssa Milano has a pedicure, my house was full of ’em, from top to bottom now.

Clearly drastic measures were called for.

After spending most of Thursday stocking up on dynamite and a few million rounds of 7.62×41mm ammo for my roof-mounted AK-47 batteries, I returned home in order to take the necessary “drastic measures” that were clearly called for.

On Friday, my carefully thought-out plan all carefully thought out and laid out, my traps set, tarps laid down, and life-size cardboard cutouts of Alyssa Milano nude positioned strategically around my house, I implemented my plan.

Six tons of dynamite stacked in a perfect cube in the center of my kettle-gnome–infested home? Check.

Roof-mounted AK-47 batteries pointed at all the neighbors’ homes in order to ensure that none escape alive? Check.

Cheque? Check.

At this point, I checked out of reality completely, firing off all million rounds I had purchased directly into the pile of dynamite in my living room. Considering that my AK-47s are roof-mounted, and the roof itself stood in between my guns and the pile of dynamite, the roof is no longer standing at all. Considering that my target was a large pile of dynamite, neither is my house.

Nor is Mr. Wilson, but that’s another kettle-gnome of fish.

Nor are any of my other neighbors, but they’re just a bunch of nameless, faceless bastards, so I couldn’t care less.

I looked around, bumping and gurgling as I assessed the damage.

There was a lot.

(Big brown Loquisha’s got a lot of butt, too, but that was beside the point.)

I clambered down (that’s the kind of climbing a clam does) from the roof—what was left of it, which was actually nothing; apparently I had been standing on thin air while doing all that damage-assessing—and squatted down on the ground to count the thousands of tiny, tiny corpses that ought to have been strewn about my lawn and the crater where my gorilla-house once stood.

“Zero,” I mumbled, beginning the count. I looked to the left, right, a little ways in front of me, a ways behind me, and then directly at my behind. (I didn’t dare stare directly into Lo’ Kweeisha’s behind—stronger men than I have tried, and none have survived.) “And, …zero.”

Okay, not a single dead kettle-gnome. I looked around. Not a single live one, either. “Where’d you gnomey things all go?” I mused out loud.

Off in the distance, a hog snarked. A bee landed on my nose and stung me. Suddenly, the world was no longer my oyster, and I wanted to go home. Then, I saw her: my life-size cardboard cutout of Alyssa Milano. Then some other stuff happened that may have included me stomping to death sixteen kettle-gnomes, or may have just included me falling to the ground, frothing at the mouth, and hallucinating wildly about big dogs landing on my face again. Once again, Samuel Dreckers had gotten the best of me, it seemed. I knew what I had to do: I invited Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir over, told her to come barefoot and in her strongest metal lingerie, and then I informed the gorillas of her impending arrival. The gorillas were overjoyed, ooh-oohing and ahh-ahhing wildly as they slapped themselves on the buttocks in anticipation. The trap was set perfectly.

Ravna arrived 27¾ minutes later, barefoot, her toenails painted the color of an ocelot. The gorillas immediately set upon her with vigor. “Ooh ooh ooh, ahh, aaahh, aaaahhhh!!” “Oh my God, not again!!!”

I knew those sounds well.

At this point, my fantasies of Alyssa Milano stripping nude, slathering herself in mud, and cavorting around a beach like a crazy naked monkey got the best of me, and I crawled back into my pwee-pwee hole, made a bunch of weird noises, pulled on things, and made a mess all over the floor. But more on that later—the kettle-gnomes are escaping!!

The kettle-gnomes are escaping!!

Kettle-gnomes!!

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Today is January 27

Prevaricated on January 27, 2008

Tags: Alyssa Milano, buttocks, California, cockroaches, cornpones, cows, death, gnomes, goats, God, gorillas, nose, pigtails, pincer monkeys, rat-fighting contest, sandals, schtupp, Spend-O-Mart, squirrels, testicles, Loquisha.

[Dear Lord, please stop sending insane, writhing masses of berserk pincer monkeys after me for not being able to write in my “web blob” coherently. My doings and happenings-to may not make any sense to you, Lord, but they make a lot of sense to me. It’s the gnomes, Lord. The gnomes. They just won’t stop invading my head and drilling behind my eyes for gold. I can’t help it. And then there’s Loquisha… Lo’ Kweeisha… Bubble-Butt Lo’ Kweeisha. She just drives me crazy with those big ol’ buttocks of hers and tiny little sandals she walks on and occasionally puts ’tween her buttocks. And then there’s Alyssa Milano—she drives me crazier than a bat out of northern California. And then there’s more, too, but I forgot all of it when I started thinking about Alyssa. Please, Lord, stop sending me the pincer monkeys. I’ll send you money. Real money this time. Thank you, Lord. Amen.]

Today being January 27, I decided that a “today is January 27” party was in order.

The first order of business for a “today is…” party—for any party, in fact—is to send out invitations. Seeing as how the party was today, and today was the day I was sending out invitation (for the party that was today), I was in a bit of a pickle here. I decided that fast, furious, and decisive action was needed.

Which is, of course, the only kind of action I’m good at.

I quickly printed up 45,000 invitations on high-quality, canary copier paper. As I was quite pressed for time, putting any thought or effort into the invitations was out of the question: a simple header, “Today is January 27! Get thee to Pnårp’s house!”, and a photograph of yours truly from last year’s Sicilian rat-fighting contest, rat in mouth, would have to suffice.

Suffice it did.

Next up on the agenda was actually getting the invitations out to the waiting, salivating public. Envelopes stuffed, and stuffed down my pants, I quickly set about delivering them. Not having time to shove them in everyone’s mailbox—or, had time permitted, shove them in people’s nostrils—I settled on a quicker method: running frantically down the street, waving my hands wildly above my head, and hurling envelopes in every direction. Using this method, I was able to deliver all 45,000 invitations in less than 49 minutes.

The final step before people starting pouring through my door, clamoring for the “today is January 27” party to begin, was to actually buy party supplies and prepare my modest little home for the stampeding invasion that was about to take place. Since the invitations had already gone out, there was no time to lose—down to the Spend-O-Mart on Crunkner Boulevard I went, fistfuls of $20 bills in my hands, ready to buy everything. Not just everything I needed for the party, but everything.

Suddenly realizing that I would need more than the $275,671.40 I had brought with me in order to buy literally everything, I sullenly settled on simply buying everything that I needed. Fortunately, the Spend-O-Mart had everything I needed, in addition to having everything else. Into the store I ran, grabbing four shopping carts at once, and down the aisles I went, pweedling and deedling joyously as I filled the carts with everything I needed—far more than what I would be able to fit in my car, but who cared? It was a “today is January 27” party!

Forty bags of Doritos, thirteen bags of plain potato chips, seventy-seven jars of salsa dip, forty-seven bottles of Mountain Dew, thirty bottles of Coke, four bottles of crab juice, seventeen bags of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, sixteen bags of salt-and-arsenic potato chips, five boxes of Cheerios, five boxes of Golden Grahams, five boxes of generic unflavored cereal, seven milligrams of sodium benzoate, four pounds of peanuts, seven pounds of pistachios, three pounds of macadamias, seven more pounds of peanuts, eight pounds of horse testicles, a quarter ton of hamburger, six thousand hamburger rolls, a single hotdog, four bags of hotdog rolls, a quarter pound of golden cockroaches, whipped cream, light cream, heavy cream, six pounds of goat nipples (to make crème de la goat nipple!), four bags of flour, four bags of flowers, six pounds of golden cornpone mix, twenty rounds of .45 ACP, seven more pounds of peanuts, seven more pounds of penises, another bag of Doritos, some lye, three pounds of clams, four pounds of haddock, seventeen pounds of anchovies, four scallops, a kilogram of salt, a kilogram of pepper, two kilograms of sugar, four kilograms of high fructose corn syrup, a roll of asbestos, a pinch of ricin, four tons of rice, six bell peppers, seven green peppers, eight black peppers, nine bright orange peppers, ten mauve peppers with crimson polka dots, a bag of straight razors, some rat poison, another quarter pound of live golden cockroaches, four bowls of beef stew, a sixteen-ounce sirloin, three pounds of mozzarella, four pounds of Parmesan, a bottle of gorilla repellent, three gallons of milk, seven gallons of goat milk, four gallons of pig milk, some wine, some venison, some cheap booze (if the gorilla repellent doesn’t work), and finally, a single mushroom.

Up to the cash register I went, four shopping carts in tow. Threw a handful of $20s at the cashier, screamed some profanities, said “keep the change!”, and flew out of there faster than a donkey in a donkey-punching contest. Upon arrival back at my palatial home, I threw everything into an enormous vat and boiled it thoroughly. Pnårp’s “January 27 party mix” was almost done!

After seven minutes of fast, furious boiling, I ladled my liquid party mix into bowls—thirty thousand of them—and set them out on my dining room table. Finally, everything was set. With much ceremony and pomposity, I marched to my front door and flung it open, ready to admit the waiting crowd.

Fling! And…

“…Where the hecklegroober is everyone?” I mumbled, staring out into the vast emptiness that was my front yard. A lone squirrel looked up at me, chittered something obscene, and scampered off.

Before I had a chance to start crying like a little girl still in her pigtails, a sudden noise behind me caught my attention and diverted me from my lacrimatory course of action. The noise was hard to describe, but it was vaguely reminiscent of the sound a morbidly obese heifer might make after having been force-fed seven pounds of beans and then schtupped from behind. I spun around, quickly concluding that everyone must’ve snuck in through the back door in order to give me a surprise “today is January 27” party.

But no—that wasn’t it! My party mix was exploding!

Before I could take even a single step—move even a single inch—inhale even a single particle of asbestos—my entire house, gorillas included, was blown to smithereens by the exploding party mix. I was hurled off my feet, hurled into the air, hurled backward, along a graceful parabolic hurl-arc, until I landed on my buttocks about forty feet from my door… or rather, where my door once stood.

Once again, my house was destroyed.

“Well, that didn’t go so well,” I mumblesputtered to myself. It was almost as disastrous as yesterday’s “today is January 26” party that ended with the deaths of seven people and my nose stuck in a waffle iron.

Time to prepare for tomorrow’s “today is January 28” party…

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