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A plan is hatched

Hatched right before April 4, 2010.

Ugh.

This week, much to my dismay, I discovered that my fnord problem was much, much bigger than I had previously thought.

Immediately after finishing up last Sunday’s entry and publishing it to my wobsite, the phone rang. After leaping out of my chair and clinging to the ceiling at the sudden interruption in my train of thought—and almost leaping out of my skin in the process—I picked up the phone and said, “…Woo …hoo …hey?” hesitantly. At once, fnords burst out of the handset, flying into my face, taunting and jeering at me, circling my skull as they did so. Blue fnords, red fnords, all of the wingèd variety, circling and sperkling around me, reminding me that I could see them.

I slammed down the phone, and they were gone. Or so I thought.

On Monday, I awoke to find my entire bathroom encased in mold. Not just any old mold, no, but fnordmold. Mold sprouted from the faucets, hung from the ceiling, and climbed up the walls like kudzu gently encircling Alyssa Milano’s dainty ankles. The mold was so thick in the sink that it had grown stalks ending in fruiting bodies the size and shape of small mammals, all of which smirked at me with their smiling little mold-faces. Fnordmold-faces.

My solution of madly spraying soy sauce all over the place in my kitchen seemed to do the trick though, for once I had done so, and wet myself in anger and annoyance a few times, I returned to the bathroom to find all the mold had vanished without a trace.

On Tuesday, upon picking up my copy of The Bouillabaissia Unintelligencer from my doorstep, I found that every single word in the paper had been replaced with the same five-letter F-word I had come to quickly hate with the burning passion of a thousand suns: Fnord. I shrieked and babbled incoherently for five or ten minutes, then, upon seeing the paper boy still delivering papers on my street, I chased him down and demanded an explanation for this fnord-filled paper he had dropped on my palatial doorstep.

He claimed he didn’t know what I was talking about! I grabbed another paper from him, which proved to be equally fnordy, and thrust it in his face. He stared at it blankly, looked up at me dubiously, and then back at the paper. He started reading the headlines: ‘Agitated man attacks local peddler with trained falcon,’ the boy began. “That’s what the first story says. The second says ‘Disgruntled shopper tries to choke store manager with spiral ham.’ I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know wha—”

‘Fnord’!” I howled. “It says, ‘Fnord, fnord, fnord’! They all say, ‘Fnord’!” He ran off; I let him go. My invidious shriekings and babblings seemed to have done the trick, for when I looked back at the paper, the two top headlines were indeed about some lunatic in my neighborhood attacking hapless businessmen.

On Wednesday, I awoke to find my entire house had been transformed into one giant fnord. Stuffing wads of peppermint chewing gum up my nose until I couldn’t breathe seemed to do the trick, for after I had accidentally inhaled them, choked on them, and finally coughed them up, my house had been transformed back into a house once again.

On Thursday, my faithful dog Yappie was suddenly transformed into a fnord at a quarter past noon. I found him yowling and growling in the middle of my kitchen floor, while fnords from under my fnidge infested his eyelets and earlets. Snarfing down an entire bag of shredded mozzarella cheese seemed to do the trick, for once I had made myself so constipated that I knew I wouldn’t deposit any fnurds into the fnoilet for a month, Yappie was transformed back into my faithful Carpathian Yapping Hound that he’d always been.

On Friday, the day itself was transformed into a fnord: And not just any fnord either, but the biggest fnord of them all. I nearly urpled and murped myself to death as I cogitated over how to deal with this problem, having run out of nutty ideas for the first time in my life. After a brief visit to Hegyközszentimre, I enquizzled over this puzzle ponderously, and realized that this was even worse than that time I was nearly whizzle-needled to death by Judge Groompkin and Captain Pinnfarb. What would I do? The whole calendar was an endless, churning ream of fnords: Fnords by the mile, fnords by the pound. Fnords by the furlong, fnords all around! Quickly spurning the first forty solutions that came to mind, I rushed to my kitchen and prepared a tentative meal: An odious flobcumber salad, dressed with croutons, blayonnaise, and Cranch dressing. I scarfed it down faster than you can say, “Beezleborf my Fluddelly Diddellies, when the Schnorkle-Borkle divinates the Wundt-Burble Borkessler.”

The fnords were gone once again, my calendar returning to its usual fourteen-month form.

“No, Thudley! Not Thudley!” I shouted to the baleful, pestilent sky overhead, as lazy bubble boys floated by and the mubblecock sniffed a gnork in my dinglebongity loaves. I don’t know why I suddenly remembered Thudley right now. It felt like the right thing to do at the time.

I was getting ready to be sad.

On Saturday, no fnords were to be found in my palatial home. But then, at a point near sunset, when I had nonchalantly glanced out my window to make sure that Samuel Dreckers wasn’t lurking about my curtilage waiting to kill me, I spied it on the horizon: An army of fnords, wheezling and baffling beneath the setting sun—surely a million strong, if not more, and slowly headed in my direction. A quick mental calculation told me they’d be in my front yard four minutes past sunrise on Monday.

I wet myself, wet myself again, and then wet myself a third time. But then, lithe animalcules dripping from my pores, Megameg Bek herself having stolen the last of my ham bricks, I hit upon a solution: A glorious solution, a wonderful solution, a solution so splendiferous in its magnificence, so serendipitous in its serendipity, so egregarious in its supersagacity, that I momentarily forgot about the awesome footbeauty possessed by Alyssa Milano and the Spice Girls, and actually, for one brief moment in my Pnårpy life, actually concentrated on doing something coherent.

I’ll let you know if my plan worked next week, dearies. Now, Pnårp has a war to fight!