The perfunctory margin of disbelief, part II
Reified on June 29, 2008.
This week—it was on Tuesday, I believe: The Tuesday that came after Monday, which came after last Sunday, the day I wrote stuff down and went out of my gourd again—I was once again matriculated into the perfunctory margin of disbelief. It was a relief, to be sure, that it finally happened, once and for all. And indeed, when it finally did happen, I realized that I hadn’t been so relieved since Theobald of Provins ran away with his friend Walter, both to become hermits at Sussy in the Ardennes.
Having relieved myself in the public lavatory—all over the pubic lavatory, to be specific—I took a trip to Thad’s old haberdashery on Wiggensworth Street, and, seeing as how he was quite dead now—and moldering away quite nicely—I fully expected it to be closed down… preferably burned down, and the soil salted, to ensure that nothing would ever again grow there. So, you can imagine my surprise when I arrived and discovered the shop not only still standing… not only open… but filled to the brim with customers and merchandise!
My surprise went something like this:
First, my jaw dropped. Then, my tongue fell out and hit the floor. Next, my eyelids sprung up faster than you can say “Dugongs in my ear canals!” forty-seven times, and my eyeballs popped out of my head. As I fell to the ground to search for my eyeballs, which were rolling away from me at a rapid pace, my heart took advantage of my momentary distraction to leap out of my chest and exit my body through my left nostril.
Yeah. I was surprised. It showed. And now I was missing my heart and both eyes.
An ambulance was summoned, and arrived just as I began to compose myself. They demanded I go to the hospital with them, where they’d jam my eyes back in my head and my heart back down my throat, but I refused, as I was quite sure I had the proper equipment at home in order to perform the necessary surgery. After much hemming and hawing, protestations, and threats to use globbily force to insert me into the back of the ambulance, they gave up with a snort, and left. I trotted home, bleeding profusely, whereupon I planned to retire to my cenacle in order to rest a while (and perhaps finish bleeding out) before cramming my wayward organs back where they belonged.
However, upon arriving home, I discovered that I not only lacked the proper equipment, but also remembered I had absolutely no useful knowledge with regards to organ-cramming. After groping blindly around the house for whatever tools I did possess, I decided that I would attempt the task with what I had found: A crowbar, a sledgehammer, and a ball of duct tape.
Surprisingly, the surgery was successful.
My wayward organs returned to their proper place—with only a bit of necrosis, mind you!—I went to sleep, dozing gently, my membranous integuments dreaming of the Spice Girls and their barefooted little toesies. Before nodding off, I resolved sometime next week to return to the haberdashery and ascertain why it hadn’t been stricken from the planet yet…
Yes! Yes, it was on a Tuesday that this happened! I remember now because it was on Wednesday—which came after Tuesday, like it usually does, at least in the calendar system we use in this tiny, landlocked little town of mine—that those unctuous flobcumber cakes invaded my palatial house, causing my gorillas to flee in terror, and forcing me to burn it down once again. (I do that a lot, don’t I?)
And on Thursday, I was assaulted by that most horrible of enemies, the invidious flobcumber casserole. Fortunately, my stockpiles of crème de la goat nipple paid off, and the casserole was defeated after a pitched battle in my back yard that lasted all of 4¾ hours and an extra two minutes. When it was over, Yappie was in pieces, and Smelley, my ex-neighbor’s dog, which for some reason was still living in his house despite his return to Georgia some time ago, was tasked with the unpleasant job of reassembling Yappie piece by piece.
Pnårp: 2, flobcumbers: 0.