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Glick Glick van der Glick again!

Cocked and blocked on June 15, 2008.

Glick Glick van der Glick harassed me again this week, asking me about his old friend, Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker, whom I apparently know, but whom I have completely forgotten about.

He called me on Monday, in the afternoon, and whined about how Grumfeld was dead and it was all my fault. I gave him nothing but a good buttflapping in response, so he galumphed at me rudely and hung up. I forgot about it until the next day. I forget about a lot. I like to forget about things. It makes the days pass quicker.

He called me on Tuesday, at about 27 o’clock in the morning, and harangued me about killing “Ol’ Grummie,” as he called him, and promising he’d either kill me within the week, or prostitute himself to a goat in the process. I guffawed loudly, slapped my buttocks against the phone again (five times, no less!), then hung up on him. I spent the rest of the afternoon feeding the loudies floating around my house and trying to forget about Glick. I was again successful in my forgetfulness after about a dozen minutes or so. (They were very small minutes.)

He called me on Wednesday, a bit earlier in the day, and demanded I meet him at precisely +38°18'37.97", −78°42'18.24" for pistols at dawn. I hemmed and hawed, whined and dined, but he wouldn’t take “Schmo” for an answer, so finally I gave in, and hung up. And I still didn’t know who the hell Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker was!

He called me on Thursday, bellowing about showing up at +38°18'37.97", −78°42'18.24" and finding no Pnårps in sight. I told him I was too busy feeding my gluefish all day, which he called “a stupid excuse.” I told him I was too stupid to read a map, which he called “an even stupider excuse.” I told him my name wasn’t really Pnårp, but Plårp, which he called “stupider than stupid does.” I tried to divert the conversation to Plårp’s amazingly delicious feet, which he called “weird,” so I called him “dumb” and he called me “a cow-schtupper.” This was getting nowhere, so then I told him my roof-mounted AK-47 was in the shop, so I had nothing to shoot him with, which he called “a likely story.” So, I fed him an even likelier story, one that went on for six hours, which finally bored him to death, so he hung up and hanged himself.

He didn’t call me on Friday, because he was dead. You can’t make harassing phone calls when you’re dead.

[Feetnote: Oh! Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker! I remember him! Damn it, this is just like when I forgot about Hitler!]