Pnårp’s March, 2008 pinching & twisting

Not so dead again

Recomposed right before March 2, 2008

Tags: Alyssa Milano, George W. Bush, alabaster, buttocks, death, dugongs, gnomes, pwee, sex, Shitlingthorpe.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly if you’ve read my entire web pog already, I’m not dead anymore—I am, once again, quite alive. (As is Mr. Wilson—poor, poor Mr. Wilson!—but that’s a story for another heyday.)

I thought I was dead permanently this time, my death having lasted for over a week and my body having begun to decay and compost quite nicely in my pwee-pwee hole (a.k.a. “my grave”) I had dug in my front lawn for just this occasion. It was this Wednesday that it finally happened… that I suddenly undied and became all alive and stuff again. It was most annoying for it to happy so suddenly, and I’m quite sure the worms that were feasting upon my eyeballs at the time were quite upset at what happened.

I was nonplussed, unplugged, and simply went, “Spwahh!” when I undied and popped out of my pwee-pwee hole on Wednesday morning, at approximately 9:15½ AM. (That’s half an hour, not half a minute.)

I was shocked. Astonished. Mortified and ashamed, too, with a bit of parsimonious bicker-backer tossed in, too. I was entirely caught off guard by the sudden undeath state that gripped my body in its thick, meaty claws, sexually assaulted me, and hung me out to dry by my buttock-hairs. I was so shocked, I decided to point that out twice, simply in order to make this paragraph longer: I was shocked. Astonished. Mortified and ashamed, too, with a bit of parsimonious bicker-backer tossed in, too. I was entirely caught off guard by the sudden undeath state that gripped my body in its thick, meaty claws, sexually assaulted me, and hung me out to dry by my buttock-hairs.

Paragraph sufficiently lengthened, I set about more important things, such as gluing the skin back to my body and trying to sew up my poor, worm-eaten eyeballs.

Undead dugongs haunt my dreams and keep me awake at night.

Undead lawn gnomes wheedle and needle at my doorstep, doorstop, and doorknobs. (They leave the dork-knobs alone, however.)

Undead fantasies of Alyssa Milano, forever unfulfilled, haunt my brain forever.

Even George G.H.B. Bush (the local rapist and level-one sex offender) haunts me, despite his not being undead, or dead, but being quite alive.

Fortunately, the piles of Shitlingthorpe-Alabaster Flapdoodles, lying about my front yard prior to my death, do not haunt me anymore: Sixty-four kegs of dynamite took care of that problem lickety-split! Bang, bang, bang! Booooooom!!!

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Suddenly ablaze

Ignited on March 9, 2008

Tags: death, dugongs, feces, gluefish, goats, nose, penis, pincer monkeys, pwee, sex, smurfs, testicles.

I’m going to scream, “Giant flaming testicles!” in a minute. Just so you know.

But first, I must sit down and blargh about this week’s experiences, so that all you salivating stalkers know what I’ve been up to—because I’ve been up to a lot! On Monday, I baked fresh doodlewhacker pies for all my neighbors, and then threw them through their windows when they rebuffed my invitations. On Tuesday, while higher than a Brøderbund programmer singing “Old Gray Mare” to Carmen Sandiego, I mowed my lawn and laid down a fresh coat of goats, before noshing on an entire bowl of baconpenis. On Wednesday, I ended up with dugongs in my ear canals again, which was no more fun this time than it was last time. (Although, the fapping spree I went on shortly afterward… was.) On Thursday, I fed a pile of soggy potato chips and wizened rice to my neighbor’s grandmother—who was equally as wizened, mind you. On Thursday, I went back in time and cleaned all the dugongs out of my ear canals before they could bother me on Wednesday. On Wednesday again, I spun around in circles and went “Pwee!” a lot. On Thursday, the borfnagles and snoozlekopfs came to chew off my smurfy eyebrows, so I didn’t get much done. And finally, on Saturday (I skipped Friday—boy, do I love having a time machine!), I gulped down a smooth, refreshing Crapple shortly before poor Mr. Wilson died in a blogging accident.

Now—to write this all down! If only I remembered where I left that pile of pincer monkeys that I use to carve my words into the monitor…

Then it hit me like a barrel of gluefish dropped from a six-story window by Father Dowling’s evil twin. This wobsite of mine was nine years old on Friday. I stopped for a moment to ponder this fact, while a weak and paltry copy of the sublime plenum stewed softly atop my electric stove. Of course, today was Sunday (which is not Friday, usually), which meant I wasn’t allowed to think about Friday anymore, so I attempted to burn the thought from my mind through mere force of will. Pulling a match out of my left nostril, I lit it, and…

Suddenly my testicles were ablaze.

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The blaze continues unabated

Immolated on March 16, 2008

Tags: testicles.

“Giant flaming testicles!!”

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Gra, trained assassin

Unchained after March 23, 2008

Tags: feet, toes, ankles, Alyssa Milano, Anna Ohura, George W. Bush, Strom Thurmond, cows, death, dogs, flatulence, oatmeal cookies, sex, schtupp, whizgiggle, Samuel Dreckers.

On Tuesday, while searching high and low for Samuel Dreckers, trained assassin, in order to employ him and his assassination skills in flushing out the terrycloth sputter-nutters hiding in my shoes behind my vile (evil!) oatmeal cookies, suddenly, it hit me like a barrel of pork dropped on Ron Paul’s head by George W. Bush: Anna Ohura has terribly sexy feet.

No longer caring about Samuel Dreckers, my plotting oatmeal cookies, or the terrycloth sputter-nutters sputtering and nuttering away behind my ponderously large, almost clown-like shoes, I quickly forgot where this sentence was going, so I stopped to start again. Ah, yes. I remember! No longer caring about Samuel Dreckers, those dastardly oatmeal cookies, and other things that I forget now—being a trained forgetty, forgetting comes easy to me!—I paused to ponder Anna Ohura’s feet for a moment: Supple, succulent, pink, and creamy, without a hint of armpit hair or nipple bongs anywhere on them… or the rest of her body. No, no nipple bongs at all. Cute little toes… delicate ankles… pink, pink soles… and nothin’ else!

“Did you eat the bongs?” I wanted to ask her. But instead, I gave my genius mutt Yappie a bath, and went on another fapping spree around my parlor, cellar, and front yard. The neighbors were aghast, as usual, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care, you see, because Anna Ohura has succulent, pink feet, and the biggest tits I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen some big ones!).

Didn’t expect that, did you?

By Thursday, my fapping marathon having come to a close, and thoughts of engaging in a farting spree shoved from my mind, I set about trying to find Samuel Dreckers, trained assassin, again. I looked high. I looked low. I looked in my cubbyholes and flaggiepoles. I looked under my shoes, and in them too. I looked left. I looked right. I looked right in my neighbor’s window when she was taking a shower. And finally, I looked in my navel.

But no Samuel Dreckers was to be found. I began to despair when suddenly a gaggle of Strom Thurmonds appeared before me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: Gra, trained assassin.

He looked like an oversized orc, dressed in pink and carrying a broadsword.

“‘Gra’?” I balked a second time. “What kind of name is ‘Gra’?” I began chortling and whizgiggling loudly as Gra and the Thurmonds stood in front of me silently. “‘Trained assassin’…? You look like… a smurf who’s lost his mommy! A gloonk who’s schtupped his last cow! A pot that just got called ‘black’ by a kettle! You look like… like… oh, I don’t know what, but it’s silly. Oh! I know! You look like a kittyflipping, moosehorsing, goatpelting, cowhorning, monkeyfessing snickerdicker… in a tutu! Ha! Ha!”

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to.

Then, without warning, Gra cut my head off with his broadsword.

Finally, as my head rolled across the grass and came to a rest at Strom Thurmond #7’s feet, it hit me like a barrel of naked and barefoot Anna Ohuras: Alyssa Milano still has sexier feet.

Her toes are cuter.

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Alyssa Milano & the new adventures of Hitler

Snickerdickered on March 30, 2008

Tags: feet, toes, Alyssa Milano, Anna Ohura, Britney Spears, Adolf Hitler, buttocks, death, flatulence, goats, gorillas, nose, oatmeal cookies, penis, porcupines, pwee, Karl Winerboffer.

Having resolved last week never to speak of Anna Ohura’s graceful Japanese feet again, instead vowing to obsess over none other than the smooth succulence of Alyssa Milano’s feet and toes, henceforth and forevermore, I set about burning down every part of my house in which I’d ever considered Anna Ohura to be sexier in the feet.

This, unfortunately, meant my entire home had to go.

I decided that the most efficient course of action would be not to burn each room down individually, seeing as how they were all interconnected, but instead to knock out all the walls and pull up all the carpets and fixtures, and then pile everything—walls, fixtures, furniture, and oatmeal cookies—in the massive main parlor before setting it alight. I spent most of Tuesday and Wednesday doing this, furiously hooting and pweeing as I went about swinging the sledgehammer and demolishing my palatial—but no longer gorilla-infested, ha!—home.

At last, the pile was built. I picked up my last copy of The New Adventures of Hitler, ignited it by rubbing it rapidly against the side of my nose, and tossed it into the pile. A quick bout of flatulence set my buttocks ablaze, too, which was just fine, seeing as how I’d suddenly decided I wanted to toast my anus in preparation for the honey bunches of goats that were headed my way at a rapid pace.

Britney Spears! Naked and covered in motor oil!

With the fire blazing, and my buttocks turning a nice charred black, I decided to kick back and relax in the living room while the house went up around me. (I’d survive—I’d done it before; I can do it again.) I powered up my industrial-grade MP3 player and let it play “Rabbit-phallus” by Dishwasher Synergy while I dozed off amidst the fiery blaze.

But suddenly (an awful lot seems to happen around here suddenly, doesn’t it?), and with much fur and lice, the English football team Nottingham Forest designed their home kit after the uniform worn by Garibaldi and his men and have worn a variation of this design since being founded in 1865. It was then (now, not 1865) that I noticed the killercraft circling above my head, and I remembered that I hadn’t seen Karl Winerboffer in almost two years—although my town had named a street in honor of his family after the goatmulching accident had claimed his sister, brother, and seven toes back in 2003.

“Goatmulch!” I shouted suddenly, shocked and appalled that I’d forgotten to buy a sack of it last time I went to the gardening store. And here I’d laid down all those goats on my carefully pedicured lawn a few weeks ago… and I’d forgotten to cover them with a patina of goatmulch! Oh no!

I ran around frantically, panicking, trying to put the fire out, but it was no hope: Magyarization was fully underway, and I couldn’t stop it. The house burned to the ground, through the ground, and then all the way to China. And waiting around for the heat death of the universe would be no use, either—my house was gone, and wasn’t coming back.

…!!

I turned pale and slithered lithe porcupines from my pores before giving up the ghost.

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