Pnårp’s July, 2008 squooshing & entwining
| Derived on July 6, 2008 |
| Integrated on July 13, 2008 |
| Entangled on July 20, 2008 |
| Crossed over on July 27, 2008 |
Dog whelks in your arteries
Derived on July 6, 2008
Tags: death, dogs, dugongs, gluefish, God, schtupp, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, Fyodor Vyacheslavovich Tvalashvili.
“God-damned bloody dog whelks; it’s all your fault!”
The dog whelks looked back at me blankly. I stared them down, angrily flaring my nostrils and snorting out the blebs growing on my nose. “Don’t you give me that look! You God-damned unga-bunglers! You fornicatious schtupping-funglers! You worthless… no-good… two-timing dogwinkles! Admit it! It’s all your fault!”
The dog whelks—dogwinkles, in more amusing parlance—remained as they were, unchanged and unchanging. They didn’t just remain as they were, they continued to remain as they were. One poked an eye stalk in my direction, mocking me. It was almost as if they were some form of sessile crustacean, not the predatory sea snails I had been told they were. And so I was angry. And I got angrier.
Smash! I slammed my hammy fist into the glass, which cracked under the assault, much to my amusement and pleasure. The glass was thick, but it wouldn’t withstand my furor for long. I grinned. I punched it again. I grinned some more, and punched some more. Smash, smash, smash! I pounded on the glass again—again and again, in fact—until the pane collapsed, sending shards of glass, gallons of water, and dog whelks in every direction.
“That’ll teach you God-damned whelks!” I howled at the top of my lungs, flailing my bloodied hands, replete with near-severed fingers, over my head. I frothed at the mouth. I hooted in triumph. I frothed some more, and hooted even louder. I even howled—hoarsely, I’ll admit, but horsely too.
Bozo the Clown was dead, and these dogwinkles would pay dearly for it.
The miserable dog whelks lay upon the floor around me, still in their shells, bumping and gurgling softly, dying slowly. Dying. Like my gluefish. Dying, dying. But not dead.
“I’ll fix that!” I cackled, stomping one flat. Crunch! Its shell cracked, squooshing the dog whelk within, splattering its juicy innards outward in a graceful parabolic splat-mark. I cackled some more, giddy at the sound of their tiny deaths and sight of their slimy little bodies flattened flat. Crunch! splat! “Die, die, you damnable dog whelks! Death to the dogwinkles! I’ll show you ‘dugongs in your ear canals’!” I frothed some more, for good measure.
Dugongs began pouring out of my ear canals, but I was non-fazed. I pressed on with the slaughter of the helpless predatory sea snails bumping and gurgling on the floor around me. A security guard came running. Shouting. Running and shouting, as the piteous snails gurgled to death, bumptiously. Broken glass was everywhere. Everywhere. Broken everywhere.
Smelley, still not having followed his master back to Colchis, suddenly chucked a live grenade at me through an open window next to the shattered tank. I hit the deck. Shards of glass stabbed at me in every direction, several of them lodging deep in my fleshy body. I was too angry to care, my frothing red rage having got the best of me. How dare these dog whelks continue to bumpgurgle all over the floor?! The security guards were on top of me, hauling me off the floor and attempting to subdue me. I picked up a dog whelk—the last survivor, it appeared—and crushed it between my bony, white fingers.
“I regret nothing! Death to the dogwinkles! Bozo’s dead! Dugongs! Dugongs in your ear canals! Dogwinkles in your arteries!! Bozo’s dead, at their hands! Death to the doggie winkies! Deeeaaath!! Deeeeaaath!!” I shrieked as I was dragged away by the guards. “I regret nothing!!!”
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Kudzu and Miss Hewitt
Integrated on July 13, 2008
Tags: feet, toes, ankles, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Adolf Hitler, George Armstrong Custer, kudzu, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger.
Great Custer’s ghost! The haberdashery is still open, and I forgot again! It’s just like all those times that I forgot about Hitler, but even worse!
Once again, I apparently spent too much time this week thinking about Jennifer Love Hewitt, sweet in the feet as always. I dreamed of her luscious feet wrapped in kudzu. The lovely Jennifer Love Hewitt, her slender, white toes entwined in creeping kudzu. Kudzu slithering about her ankles… squeezing her feet… squooshing her toes… squeezing and squooshing them in passionate embrace. Her feet enveloped in kudzu… tentacles of kudzu writhing between her toes, her glorious toes… twisting about her feet, her glorious feet.
Ah, what an image… sensuous creeping kudzu and Jennifer Lovely Hewitt…
Pnåaåaåaåaåaåaåarp!
Fight the future, little miss barefooted Hewitt, fight the future.
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The Brundlesphere
Entangled on July 20, 2008
Tags: toes, Alyssa Milano, cockroaches, dogs, gnomes, mother, pwee, urine.
Not much happened this week… until last night. I was blithely minding my business, running to and fro in my palatial house, chasing the golden cockroaches as they skittered about my floors, cupboards, veins, and arteries, when it happened. For the past hour, I had been stuffing prodigious amounts of potentially psychotropic chemicals up my nostrils and down my throat, and nothing unusual had happened yet—just like usual. For the past nine years, I had done this nearly every night, and sometimes in the morning, too, and so far, never in my life had I suffered any ill effects (besides the occasional complete detachment from reality, out-of-gourd experience, or, one time, a total, howling descent into complete inanity).
But this night, this glorious nineteenth of July, 2008, such retention of normalcy was not be: Things were to be different. Very, very different—in a good way, too, surprisingly. I had just finished downing the last barrel of mystery chemicals, and, after excising the last golden cockroach attempting to skitter up my arm and into my innards, it happened. It happened. It, damn it, happened.
First a sudden whoosh, followed by an electric crackling noise that set my hairs on end, and Yappie’s too. Nearly without delay, the room was filled with a whirring, stinking cacophony that sent Yappie into a yapping fit, and myself into a pwee-pwee fit. I wet myself. On the floor. Recovering quickly, however, I stood up and beheld it: A golden light, radiant and glorious, had filled the room—masses of colors twirling and swirling before me: Colors I had never seen before, colors I had been assured by my dear Mamårp didn’t really exist—golden greens, black yellows, bluish purple tans—all dancing and prancing about before my eyes, radiating from a growing disc of red green orange blue yellow fnurple white light before me.
The burning air. The red, stinking, burning air. Oh, the air burned.
I stepped closer to the disc about which the mad fire swirled. It was a vortex of some sort—without any doubt whatsoever, I quickly concluded it must be a gateway into another universe. A parallel universe. (What else could it be?)
I stepped closer still. The roar was deafening as the colors swirled and blazed around me in a symphony of mindless insanity, much like my own. Thoughts of Alyssa Milano’s toenails painted these colors played through my squishy gray matter. I giggled. Tiny gnomes peeped out from between the brilliant, swirling bands of vendacious, sparkling wrath surrounding the vortex. I murped to myself softly, reluctant to step through, yet giddy at the thought of doing so.
I made up my mind: I wet myself, once again, on the floor.
That done, I made up my mind to do something else, too: I ordered a large pizza, with pepperoni and salamanders, and had it delivered. Having gorged myself on the greasy, slimy mass that such a pizza is, I made up my mind to do a third thing…
With a deafening cry of “Pwee, pwee, pweedle-deedle dee!” I leapt from my feet and dove straight for the center.
I was on my way to… the Brundlesphere.
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Through the tunnel
Crossed over on July 27, 2008
Tags: buttocks, death, gnomes, nose.
I had crossed over.
I was dead. Dead, and alive. Dead, alive, and somewhere in between. I was. I am. Or am I? Who am I?
It was a tunnel. A tunnel to another universe, all right. And I had dove straight down it.
I tumbled. Time stopped. Time started. Time didn’t exist. Time had never existed.
Forever. Not here. Before. I was in a tunnel. A tunnel of light. Brilliant light.
Time had stopped again, stopped again before it had even started. There were ducks everywhere.
Murp! Murp!!
Gnomes. Horrible, ghostly gnomes circled about the tunnel, laughing and snorting, mocking me as I traversed time itself, backwards, forwards, sideways, and sometimes not at all. The Brundlesphere was a terrible and awesome thing.
The gnomes danced. My mind reeled, blinded by the perfunctory synergy of cacophony that meeted and greeted me at every turn as I tumbled down the tunnel toward the Brundlesphere.
Time stopped. Time started. Time elapsed. Time ran backward in my mind, but forward elsewhere.
Colors. Burning air. Red, stinking, burning air. My nose was ablaze. I was on fire with time and life.
There was no longer any such thing as “dead,” or “alive.” I was dead. Alive. I was both, and neither. Time resumed. Discontinuous. Piles of gnomes enflittered upon me. The colors screamed. The sight was deafening. The noise assaulting my every pore blinded me.
I was dead.
Dinner plates flew from every direction, assaulting me, shattering as they struck my armored cranium.
I was alive.
A point, shaped like a twelve-year-old boy, appeared before me. It grew. Time grew.
Time shrank—ran backwards. I ran backwards, in place, fleeing from the gaping horror that was the point at the end of the tunnel. The yawning, gaping horror. The horror.
The tunnel ended.
My buttocks flapped.
I was in the Brundlesphere.
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