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Hobnobbishly bamboozled, she said

Interrupted before February 5, 2006.

Apparently, I was right last week: There was no tomorrow. Not with Regina and her daughter and her daughter’s pet geese, anyway. Not with their feet, either. They threw me out with nothing more than my triangular briefcase, a fish sandwich, and two words: “Hobnobbishly bamboozled.” Damnation and inflation! And the garden gnomes are back, and they’re crawling all over my skin and up my nostrils and down my veins, wheedling and needling as usual… Oh, my Lord, they’re everywhere!!!

They… they announce that they’re… they really are…

Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes!!! Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes, why do you haunt me like you do!? Why do you harass me, and tax me, and harry me whenever I sally forth into the heather!? Schmongeling Gnomes, Schmongeling Gnomes, go schmongel someone else, you yap-hearted flee-bitten cotton-picking confounded dumbfounded dumbelled bell-bottomed bottom-feeding horsefeathers and flunkeries… you, you rapacious yapping hounds, you stinking hounds that reek of burnt umber and wine vinaigrette, you stammering and yammering, gibbering and jabbering… you… Gibber-Schmongeling Troobles! That’s what you really are; I know it, the whole world knows it, even the Venereals on Uranus know it—Gibber-Schmongeling Troobles!

Out, out, out of my house, out of my teapots and domes, out of my gonads and my strife, out of my scandalously-clad, bare-footed fantasies of Alyssa Milano and the Spice Girls and Jennifer Love Hewitt—go, leave me alone, leave me be, Gibber-Schmongelers, leave me to breed goslings with the Countess-Prelate’s daughter’s pet geese!

Pweee, pweeeeee, pweeeweee, weewee, pweedle-deedle deeeeeeeeeeeee!!!