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 whole pile of flapdoodles from Shitlingthorpe

Recollected on February 17, 2008.

Apparently, as I discovered this week, vengeance was not to be mine—but a pile of fresh Shitlingthorpe-Alabaster Flapdoodles sure was, and how I came to procure, against my will, such an enormous heap of flapdoodles is a highly amusing tale that I shall now recollect for my slavering, slobbering readers (this means you, pointy).

Last Sunday, immediately after scribbling “Vengeance shall be mine…” in my web blob, I leapt from my chair, howled at the ceiling fan for six minutes, then scampered outdoors barefoot, intent on exacting the vengeance that should have been mine against the whizgiggling virgins that had so callously caused the death of my tankful of precious, precious gluefish. I was off, in search of the national bathroom that held these fiendish harpies.

However, I didn’t get far before I was accosted by scores of berserk pincer monkeys, once again. I tried my darnedest to fend them off, spatula in one hand, and pincer-remover in the other, but it was, alas, all in vain—as lithe porcupines slithered along my veins, exiting furiously through my wide-open pores, pincer monkey after pincer monkey assaulted me until there was nothing left of yours truly but a small puddle of goo in the driveway.

Suddenly realizing that the pincer monkeys must have been in cahoots with the nefarious whizgiggling virgins, I leapt from my driveway, leaping upward and inward at the same time, and quickly reconstituted myself as a human being replete with bones and other things that help hold me up and hold my ugly bag of mostly water together. Then, I hooted like an owl.

For seventeen minutes.

Suddenly realizing that the Sun was setting—descending upon my house like a bat out of northern California, intent on crashing through my roof and burning my house to the ground in a 5,500 °C blaze—I shrieked unholy matrimonies, threw my car through my own window, and scampered back into the safe, safe safety that was my house. It was so safe that not even the gnomes could penetrate it anymore.

It was also airtight, which eventually led to my death on Monday morning.