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Today is January 27

Prevaricated on January 27, 2008.

[Dear Lord, please stop sending insane, writhing masses of berserk pincer monkeys after me for not being able to write in my “web blob” coherently. My doings and happenings-to may not make any sense to you, Lord, but they make a lot of sense to me. It’s the gnomes, Lord. The gnomes. They just won’t stop invading my head and drilling behind my eyes for gold. I can’t help it. And then there’s Loquisha… Lo’ Kweeisha… Bubble-Butt Lo’ Kweeisha. She just drives me crazy with those big ol’ buttocks of hers and tiny little sandals she walks on and occasionally puts ’tween her buttocks. And then there’s Alyssa Milano—she drives me crazier than a bat out of northern California. And then there’s more, too, but I forgot all of it when I started thinking about Alyssa. Please, Lord, stop sending me the pincer monkeys. I’ll send you money. Real money this time. Thank you, Lord. Amen.]

Today being January 27, I decided that a “today is January 27” party was in order.

The first order of business for a “today is…” party—for any party, in fact—is to send out invitations. Seeing as how the party was today, and today was the day I was sending out invitations (for the party that was today), I was in a bit of a pickle here. I decided that fast, furious, and decisive action was needed.

Which is, of course, the only kind of action I’m good at.

I quickly printed up 45,000 invitations on high-quality, canary copier paper. As I was quite pressed for time, putting any thought or effort into the invitations was out of the question: A simple header, Today is January 27! Get thee to Pnårp’s house!, and a photograph of yours truly from last year’s Sicilian rat-fighting contest, rat in mouth, would have to suffice.

Suffice it did.

Next up on the agenda was actually getting the invitations out to the waiting, salivating public. Envelopes stuffed, and stuffed down my pants, I quickly set about delivering them. Not having time to shove them in everyone’s mailbox—or, had time permitted, shove them in people’s nostrils—I settled on a quicker method: Running frantically down the street, waving my hands wildly above my head, and hurling envelopes in every direction. Using this method, I was able to deliver all 45,000 invitations in less than 49 minutes.

The final step before people starting pouring through my door, clamoring for the “today is January 27” party to begin, was to actually buy party supplies and prepare my modest little home for the stampeding invasion that was about to take place. Since the invitations had already gone out, there was no time to lose—down to the Spend-O-Mart on Crunkner Boulevard I went, fistfuls of $20 bills in my hands, ready to buy everything. Not just everything I needed for the party, but everything.

Suddenly realizing that I would need more than the $275,671.40 I had brought with me in order to buy literally everything, I sullenly settled on simply buying everything that I needed. Fortunately, the Spend-O-Mart had everything I needed, in addition to having everything else. Into the store I ran, grabbing four shopping carts at once, and down the aisles I went, pweedling and deedling joyously as I filled the carts with everything I needed—far more than what I would be able to fit in my car, but who cared? It was a “today is January 27” party!

Forty bags of Doritos, thirteen bags of plain potato chips, seventy-seven jars of salsa dip, forty-seven bottles of Mountain Dew, thirty bottles of Coke, four bottles of crab juice, seventeen bags of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, sixteen bags of salt-and-arsenic potato chips, five boxes of Cheerios, five boxes of Golden Grahams, five boxes of generic unflavored cereal, seven milligrams of sodium benzoate, four pounds of peanuts, seven pounds of pistachios, three pounds of macadamias, seven more pounds of peanuts, eight pounds of horse testicles, a quarter ton of hamburger, six thousand hamburger rolls, a single hotdog, four bags of hotdog rolls, a quarter pound of golden cockroaches, whipped cream, light cream, heavy cream, six pounds of goat nipples (to make crème de la goat nipple!), four bags of flour, four bags of flowers, six pounds of golden cornpone mix, twenty rounds of .45 ACP, seven more pounds of peanuts, seven more pounds of penises, another bag of Doritos, some lye, three pounds of clams, four pounds of haddock, seventeen pounds of anchovies, four scallops, a kilogram of salt, a kilogram of pepper, two kilograms of sugar, four kilograms of high fructose corn syrup, a roll of asbestos, a pinch of ricin, four tons of rice, six bell peppers, seven green peppers, eight black peppers, nine bright orange peppers, ten mauve peppers with crimson polka dots, a bag of straight razors, some rat poison, another quarter pound of live golden cockroaches, four bowls of beef stew, a sixteen-ounce sirloin, three pounds of mozzarella, four pounds of Parmesan, a bottle of gorilla repellent, three gallons of milk, seven gallons of goat milk, four gallons of pig milk, some wine, some venison, some cheap booze (if the gorilla repellent doesn’t work), and finally, a single mushroom.

Up to the cash register I went, four shopping carts in tow. Threw a handful of $20s at the cashier, screamed some profanities, said “keep the change!”, and flew out of there faster than a donkey in a donkey-punching contest. Upon arrival back at my palatial home, I threw everything into an enormous vat and boiled it thoroughly. Pnårp’s “January 27 party mix” was almost done!

After seven minutes of fast, furious boiling, I ladled my liquid party mix into bowls—thirty thousand of them—and set them out on my dining room table. Finally, everything was set. With much ceremony and pomposity, I marched to my front door and flung it open, ready to admit the waiting crowd.

Fling! And…

“…Where the hecklegroober is everyone?” I mumbled, staring out into the vast emptiness that was my front yard. A lone squirrel looked up at me, chittered something obscene, and scampered off.

Before I had a chance to start crying like a little girl still in her pigtails, a sudden noise behind me caught my attention and diverted me from my lacrimatory course of action. The noise was hard to describe, but it was vaguely reminiscent of the sound a morbidly obese heifer might make after having been force-fed seven pounds of beans and then schtupped from behind. I spun around, quickly concluding that everyone must’ve snuck in through the back door in order to give me a surprise “today is January 27” party.

But no—that wasn’t it! My party mix was exploding!

Before I could take even a single step—move even a single inch—inhale even a single particle of asbestos—my entire house, gorillas included, was blown to smithereens by the exploding party mix. I was hurled off my feet, hurled into the air, hurled backward, along a graceful parabolic hurl-arc, until I landed on my buttocks about forty feet from my door… or rather, where my door once stood.

Once again, my house was destroyed.

“Well, that didn’t go so well,” I mumblesputtered to myself. It was almost as disastrous as yesterday’s “today is January 26” party that ended with the deaths of seven people and my nose stuck in a waffle iron.

Time to prepare for tomorrow’s “today is January 28” party…