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Not so dead again

Recomposed right before March 2, 2008.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly if you’ve read my entire web pog already, I’m not dead anymore—I am, once again, quite alive. (As is Mr. Wilson—poor, poor Mr. Wilson!—but that’s a story for another heyday.)

I thought I was dead permanently this time, my death having lasted for over a week and my body having begun to decay and compost quite nicely in my pwee-pwee hole (a.k.a. “my grave”) I had dug in my front lawn for just this occasion. It was this Wednesday that it finally happened… that I suddenly undied and became all alive and stuff again. It was most annoying for it to happy so suddenly, and I’m quite sure the worms that were feasting upon my eyeballs at the time were quite upset at what happened.

I was nonplussed, unplugged, and simply went spwahh! when I undied and popped out of my pwee-pwee hole on Wednesday morning, at approximately 9:15½ AM. (That’s half an hour, not half a minute.)

I was shocked. Astonished. Mortified and ashamed, too, with a bit of parsimonious bicker-backer tossed in, too. I was entirely caught off guard by the sudden undeath state that gripped my body in its thick, meaty claws, sexually assaulted me, and hung me out to dry by my buttock-hairs. I was so shocked, I decided to point that out twice, simply in order to make this paragraph longer: I was shocked. Astonished. Mortified and ashamed, too, with a bit of parsimonious bicker-backer tossed in, too. I was entirely caught off guard by the sudden undeath state that gripped my body in its thick, meaty claws, sexually assaulted me, and hung me out to dry by my buttock-hairs.

Paragraph sufficiently lengthened, I set about more important things, such as gluing the skin back to my body and trying to sew up my poor, worm-eaten eyeballs.

Undead dugongs haunt my dreams and keep me awake at night.

Undead lawn gnomes wheedle and needle at my doorstep, doorstop, and doorknobs. (They leave the dork-knobs alone, however.)

Undead fantasies of Alyssa Milano, forever unfulfilled, haunt my brain forever.

Even George G.H.B. Bush (the local rapist and level-one sex offender) haunts me, despite his not being undead, or dead, but being quite alive.

Fortunately, the piles of Shitlingthorpe-Alabaster Flapdoodles, lying about my front yard prior to my death, do not haunt me anymore: Sixty-four kegs of dynamite took care of that problem lickety-split! Bang, bang, bang! Booooooom!!!