Subscribe to all of my blatherings right in your wob brewser!Subscribe to my latest blatherings right in your wob brewser! Pnårp in print! Made from 35% recycled toilet paper! Send Pnårp your garrulous praise… or excretory condemnation! The less you tweet? The more you toot! Dreaming widely about my page! Tweet! Tweet! Twat! Livin’ it up… on a living journal! A whole book full of my faces? A whole book full of my faces?
You’re my favorite visitor!

Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page

A cock-up, to be sure

Erected on June 4, 2006.

Cocksure as a cock o’ the roost, I cocked up the gnomes on Thursday, one by one, cocking my gun and petting my cock as I went a-cocking. It was quite a cock-up for the gnomes, to be sure, as one by one they went tits-up: The gnomes flying and dying at the end of my cocked gun—and my cock itself. Their deaths were orgasmic. Buk, buk, buk… bukwaaukk!

No more Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes, no more oatmeal cookies with spies on my kitchen table, no more pain and disaster befalling me at every footstep, instep, and flip-flop. (No more bus route #23 on Farnsworth Street either, because of that refinery explosion on Monday, and no more posters of Jennifer Love Hewitt barefoot, but that’s another story.) I took power into my own hands today, holding it by the horns, until it enveloped me like some kind of horrible, slimy tentacle monster from those Japanese cartoons—those cartoons that turn out to be not quite so horrible, but strangely erotic, after you watch them half a dozen times, transfixed by their tentacly goodness. I took power into my own hands, and I won—and now I am gnomeless.

Without trouble.

Without a care in the world.

…And apparently cockless. Darn.