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Saturday was the worst

Hobnobbed on October 2, 2005.

Tuesday was not a fun day for me. The garden gnomes infested my house, in herds, in droves, in heaps and piles, swinging from the rafters, dancing on the rooftop (and firing the AK-47 once they dislodged it from the shingles and figured out how to turn the safety off with their little gnomey fingers), advancing on the beltways, and dangling from the lampshades, holding themselves by their toes and holding my nose to the grindstone while I scribbled the letter G on my flaring nostrils, all alone. They infested my house, ingested my housecats, and—in jest, surely—divested my portfolio!

Thursday was worse. I escaped the gnomes’ grasp, somehow—I didn’t slither blithely out the door this time though; I’m not going to teach them any more new tricks, oh no!—and then I buried myself in a hole in the sweet, sweet earth, and imagined what it would be like to never have seen a garden gnome, never have smelled a lawn gnome, nor ever to have even heard of a Trooble, of any kind, in my entire cut-away life. Then I suffocated under that sweet, sweet earth, for the hole was too deep and someone filled it in while I meditated and eventually hypoxiated over my predicament. I woke up back in their clutches (the gnomes’! who else’s?) while they sounded off about Carpathian Stinking Hounds and Yapping Hounds and something called a “happy, hungry Levitican squealing-wheel.” So then I just sat there and watched DVDs all day.

Saturday was the worst. It just was.

(Wednesday was, however, a fun day. I spent all day spinning in circles, waving my arms, and going “Pwee, pwee, pweeweewee!” in my closet!)