Pnårp’s June, 2008 diddling & fiddling

Glick Glick van der Glick

Cocked and locked on June 1, 2008

Tags: death, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker.

Does anyone remember a man named Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker? A supposed friend of his, calling himself Glick Glick van der Glick, called me on the teleporn this week and threatened to murder me in my sleep for supposedly murdering this Spooijwanker fellow. (That’s a funny name, isn’t it?)

Top

Requiem for a haberdasher

Eulogized on June 8, 2008

Tags: feet, Alyssa Milano, Spice Girls, buttocks, death, goats, Perfect Strangers, sex, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger.

I have terrible, terrible news to convey to you this week, my dear readers—news so terrible I completely forgot to try and remember anything that happened to me this week. It’s just awful, awful, so awful—so terrible I can barely hold the pen to my monitor long enough to scribble it down in my web blargh.

My good friend, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, the local haberdasher, is dead.

Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, who hated me with unrelenting passion after I mocked his bald spot, horrible obesity, and his whorish daughter’s goat fetish, is dead.

His entire family was in attendance at his funeral—except his whore of a daughter, of course, who couldn’t get time off from the brothel in order to attend. Word is her feet—and her goats—are in high demand nowadays. Even though ol’ Thad hated me, and I had so many more important things to do at the time of the funeral (such as clip my nails or lick photos of Alyssa Milano and the Spice Girls), I simply had to attend the funeral, since I was a self-declared friend of his. I’m sure that his family either wouldn’t mind, or would have me arrested for stalking him. Fortunately that slut Eunice wasn’t there, so that restraining order didn’t matter. As for the rest…

So, I put on my best all-black suit (the one I dyed and furred myself), painted it purple, tied a stick of pepperoni to my neck, and set off in the direction of the cemetery on Terwilliger Street where the service was being held. Nothing was going to hold me back, nothin’s gonna stop me now… It’s my life, my dream… nothin’s gonna stop me now…

Whistling the “Perfect Strangers” theme song as I galloped into the Terwilliger Street cemetery, I arrived just as the service was beginning. His entire family, sans Eunice F.G. Harshbarger, was lined up in a graceful parabolic arc—more of a straight line, really—behind the casket, bawling their eyes out and making a general mess of things. The funeral director, a man by the name of Mann, was already reciting a eulogy or elegy or something like that. I forget. I hate funerals. All sad and stuff. Bloody old bugger shouldn’t have died, if you ask me—damned selfish of him, I think. But anyway…

“Hey, Harshbargers! Phillip’s here! Woo-hoo-hey!” I shouted, crossing my eyes, sticking out my tongue, and making a very silly face as I ogled Mrs. Harshbarger’s well-clad body. “Let’s get this party started! Wait, hey… why the long faces? Did someone get stomped on by a horse?” I joked.

Then I remembered it was a funeral, not a party. Oops.

Mortimer V.I. Harshbarger VI, Thaddeus’ son, burst into tears again, bawling all over the open casket. Mrs. Harshbarger—I don’t know her name, and since I’m sure it’s something pretentious and stupid, I don’t care—glared at me with eyes full of wrath, hatred, and alabaster. Other than crash their funeral, act like it was a party, and completely disrespect the mutilated corpse laid out in front of me, I had no idea what I’d done wrong. It wasn’t like I had urinated in the coffin or anything, although I had to admit to myself that doing so was on my itinerary.

“Whaaaaaat?” I tried to dismiss their looks of pure hatred. “C’mon, guys! It’s not like anyone died or anything!”

Oh, right. Funeral. Casket right in front of me, mutilated corpse with horseshoe-shaped dent on forehead within.

Hmm.

“Okay, okay, so someone’s dead. What the hecklegroober happened to the ol’ bugger anyway?”

“You ass!” Thaddeus’ sister, Beatrice I.T. Carparker-Harshbarger, growled at me.

I looked down at the corpse again. The gears in my mind slowly started turning, the little monkeys that push and turn them within my cranium finally getting back to work. Hmm. Horseshoe-shaped dent on the forehead. Joke about being stomped on by a horse. Hmm. A connection, a possibility…

“Horsebuttock riding accident?” I queried. Mrs. Harshbarger nodded sullenly. Mortimer continued blubbering. Beatrice, living up to her initials, hurled death threats in my direction. I suddenly got a feelin’ like I needed some kind of change. Well, nothin’s gonna stop me now. Sometimes the world looks perfect, and there’s nothin’ to rearrange. But sometimes, you just get a feelin’ like you need kind of change—for example, after your best friend died in a horsebuttock riding accident.

And then, suddenly, it happened. Suddenly… a thought popped into my head. Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of any thoughts in my head, I opened my mouth and gave voice to it before I could stop myself.

“Hey, you guys know what everyone down at Madame Beaux-Pieds’ says Eunice’s initials stand for, eh? Baa-aa-aa-a-a-a!”

Sudden silence.

Mrs. Harshbarger turned white. Mortimer turned green, and Beatrice turned red, then purple. I started thinking about turning and leaving, and fast.

Beatrice charged like a raging bull.

I turned and left, fast.

Top

Glick Glick van der Glick again!

Cocked and blocked on June 15, 2008

Tags: feet, Adolf Hitler, AK-47, buttocks, cows, death, gluefish, goats, sex, schtupp, sister, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker.

Glick Glick van der Glick harassed me again this week, asking me about his old friend, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker, whom I apparently know, but whom I have completely forgotten about.

He called me on Monday, in the afternoon, and whined about how Grumfeld was dead and it was all my fault. I gave him nothing but a good buttflapping in response, so he galumphed at me rudely and hung up. I forgot about it until the next day. I forget about a lot. I like to forget about things. It makes the days pass quicker.

He called me on Tuesday, at about 27 o’clock in the morning, and harangued me about killing “Ol’ Grummie,” as he called him, and promising he’d either kill me within the week, or prostitute himself to a goat in the process. I guffawed loudly, slapped my buttocks against the phone again (five times, no less!), then hung up on him. I spent the rest of the afternoon feeding the loudies floating around my house and trying to forget about Glick. I was again successful in my forgetfulness after about a dozen minutes or so. (They were very small minutes.)

He called me on Wednesday, a bit earlier in the day, and demanded I meet him at precisely +38°18'37.97", -78°42'18.24" for pistols at dawn. I hemmed and hawed, whined and dined, but he wouldn’t take “Schmo” for an answer, so finally I gave in, and hung up. And I still didn’t know who the hell Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker was!

He called me on Thursday, bellowing about showing up at +38°18'37.97", -78°42'18.24" and finding no Pnårps in sight. I told him I was too busy feeding my gluefish all day, which he called “a stupid excuse.” I told him I was too stupid to read a map, which he called “an even stupider excuse.” I told him my name wasn’t really Pnårp, but Plårp, which he called “stupider than stupid does.” I tried to divert the conversation to Plårp’s amazingly delicious feet, which he called “weird,” so I called him “dumb” and he called me “a cow-schtupper.” This was getting nowhere, so then I told him my roof-mounted AK-47 was in the shop, so I had nothing to shoot him with, which he called “a likely story.” So, I fed him an even likelier story, one that went on for six hours, which finally bored him to death, so he hung up and hanged himself.

He didn’t call me on Friday, because he was dead. You can’t make harassing phone calls when you’re dead.

[Feetnote: Oh! Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker! I remember him! Damn it, this is just like when I forgot about Hitler!]

Top

Crossing the hatches

Pasteurized for June 22, 2008

Tags: feet, toes, ankles, Alyssa Milano, buttocks, cockroaches, death, dogs, gnomes, kudzu.

“Ooh, da, da-da, doo.”

You probably thought I was about to say, “I sang that to myself today,” or something equally as predictable and stupid, so I won’t say that. Instead, I shall make something up… something clever, new, and even… effervescent. I shall say: “My dog Yappie yapped that at me today.” And indeed he did, in a contralto that rivaled even the best chess players this side of the sublime plenum.

“Now, on to more important things,” I muse to myself self-importantly—as if anything of any import were likely to ever cross my path or cross my hatches.

My hatches are crossed?! Oh, dear! They are! They are! No, no, not my crosshatches!

# # #

On Friday, having discovered my hatches had become crossed, I set about uncrossing them, via any means necessary. After all, a crossed hatch is serious business, so only the most violent and blunt methods were used. Suffice it to say, such methods proved successful, regardless of the collateral damage they caused, including the six deaths and sixteen-hundred other deaths no one noticed (the victims were entirely cockroaches—golden cockroaches of the highest order). Having completed that heinous matter, I set about smashing the latest crop of ceramic lawn gnomes to have cropped up in my gardens and palisades overnight—I don’t know how they got there, or why my gardens and palisades happened to be in the neighbor’s yard, but there it was… they needed a-smashin’, so they got a-smashin’! Smash, smash, little lawn gnomes! Smash!

Feast, feast upon the sight of thousands of tiny gnomes, smashed to pieces! Or, better, yet, feast upon the sight of Alyssa Milano’s bare, bare feet, capped with ten slender toes apiece, painted golden blue, the entire delectable ensemble sparkling creamy white in the brilliant sunset beside the cool orange waves wafting across the abortifacient skies! Feast, as she dances, as she prances upon the waves, her nimble feet twisting and curving to the earth-pounding noise that slams into your eardrums like wide streams of consciousness as told by an idiot! Feast upon her long, luscious toes! Feast, feast upon the visage of her toes splayed in the air, hydroplaning festively, dazzling with sparklers and bells a-whistle: a thistle, flowers between her glorious toes! Feast—watch, transfixed!—as the gleaming green kudzu encircles her toes and envelops her feet! Feast upon the hallucinopathic wonders that spray across the notebook page in front of you! Upon Alyssa’s daintily bare feet! Upon her ankles, her porcelain white soles, adorned with ankles and twenty-five toes apiece! A peace! A peace! Bare toes, bare feet, tiny, naked toes twisting and writhing in the sunset beneath the cool orange waves, erect and engorged with digital delights!! Feast, feeeeast!!

That’s better. It’s even in the proper tense now!

But—no, no, not Rogov!

“Ooh, daa, da-da daaa… ooh, daa, da-da daaaa!”

Hatches thoroughly uncrossed, I set about reminding myself never to cross the Rubicon, either. Nasty business. And don’t cross the streams either—total protonic reversal is bad for your health. Something about every molecule in my body exploding at the speed of light, if I remember correctly. (Wasn’t there a movie about this?) Hmm, this calls for a good buttflapping, doesn’t it? Flap, flap, flap!

“Ooooh, da-da-da, daaaa… da!”

Alyssa Milano’s feet? In my web glob? It’s more common than you think!

Fight the future, barefooted little missy… fight the future.

Top

The perfunctory margin of disbelief, part II

Reified on June 29, 2008

Tags: feet, toes, Spice Girls, death, dogs, dugongs, goats, gorillas, nose, urine, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, Fyodor Vyacheslavovich Tvalashvili.

This week—it was on Tuesday, I believe: the Tuesday that came after Monday, which came after last Sunday, the day I wrote stuff down and went out of my gourd again—I was once again matriculated into the perfunctory margin of disbelief. It was a relief, to be sure, that it finally happened, once and for all. And indeed, when it finally did happen, I realized that I hadn’t been so relieved since Theobald of Provins ran away with his friend Walter to become hermits at Sussy in the Ardennes.

Having relieved myself in the public lavatory—all over the pubic lavatory, to be specific—I took a trip to Thad’s old haberdashery on Wigginsworth Street, and, seeing as how he was quite dead now—and moldering away quite nicely—I fully expected it to be closed down… preferably burnt down, and the soil salted, to ensure that nothing would ever again grow there. So, you can imagine my surprise when I arrived and discovered the shop not only still standing… not only open… but filled to the brim with customers and merchandise!

My surprise went something like this:

First, my jaw dropped. Then, my tongue fell out and hit the floor. Next, my eyelids sprung up faster than you can say “Dugongs in my ear canals!” forty-seven times, and my eyeballs popped out of my head. As I fell to the ground to search for my eyeballs, which were rolling away from me at a rapid pace, my heart took advantage of my momentary distraction to leap out of my chest and exit my body through my left nostril.

Yeah. I was surprised. It showed. And now I was missing my heart and both eyes.

An ambulance was summoned, and arrived just as I began to compose myself. They demanded I go to the hospital with them, where they’d jam my eyes back in my head and my heart back down my throat, but I refused, as I was quite sure I had the proper equipment at home in order to perform the necessary surgery. After much hemming and hawing, protestations, and threats to use globbily force to insert me into the back of the ambulance, they gave up with a snort, and left. I trotted home, bleeding profusely, whereupon I planned to retire to my cenacle in order to rest a while (and perhaps finish bleeding out) before cramming my wayward organs back where they belonged.

However, upon arriving home, I discovered that I not only lacked the proper equipment, but also remembered I had absolutely no useful knowledge with regards to organ-cramming. After groping blindly around the house for whatever tools I did possess, I decided that I would attempt the task with what I had found: a crowbar, a sledgehammer, and a ball of duct tape.

Surprisingly, the surgery was successful.

My wayward organs returned to their proper place—with only a bit of necrosis, mind you!—I went to sleep, dozing gently, my membranous integuments dreaming of the Spice Girls and their barefooted little toesies. Before nodding off, I resolved sometime next week to return to the haberdashery and ascertain why it hadn’t been stricken from the earth yet…

Yes! Yes, it was on a Tuesday that this happened! I remember now because it was on Wednesday—which came after Tuesday, like it usually does, at least in the calendar system we use in this tiny, landlocked little town of mine—that those unctuous flobcumber cakes invaded my palatial house, causing my gorillas to flee in terror, and forcing me to burn it down once again. (I do that a lot, don’t I?)

And on Thursday, I was assaulted by that most horrible of enemies, the invidious flobcumber casserole. Fortunately, my stockpiles of crème de la goat nipple paid off, and the casserole was defeated after a pitched battle in my back yard that lasted all of 4¾ hours and an extra two minutes. When it was over, Yappie was in pieces, and Smelley, my ex-neighbor’s dog, which for some reason was still living in his house despite his return to Georgia some time ago, was tasked with the unpleasant job of reassembling Yappie piece by piece.

Pnårp: 2, flobcumbers: 0.

Top