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The fnord plan

Executed before April 11, 2010.

The plan I hatched last week to deal with my fnord problem turned out to be a roaring success. In fact, it roared so loudly that several of my annoying, pestilent neighbors thought a clutch of lions had escaped from the Julian Rhoodie Zoo and called the animal control people.

When they arrived, it almost foiled my entire plan, for my plan required a great deal of concentration and meditation, something that is made quite difficult, if not impossible, by the presence of a gaggle of determined lion-catchers trouncing all over your yard and demanding to know where you were hiding the lions that you had pilfered from the local zoo. Attempting to convince them that I had not, in fact, stolen any lions proved to be quite difficult, what with my plan roaring loudly in the background, zipping along merrily at a rapid pace.

“Where are the lions, Mr. Årp?” one of them asked me.

I squeaked and squawked in response, trying to buy time while my brain lurched into action.

“Where are they!?”

I hemmed and hawed.

“Come on, Mr. Årp, we know the lions are here. What else could roar like that? Well, a dumblebeast perhaps, but there haven’t been any dumblebeasts in these parts since the old treacle mine overran and drowned all th—”

One of the other lion-catchers smacked him on the back of the head and muttered something about staying on topic. Then he turned to me. “Give us the lions, Årp, or we’ll feed you to them!”

Hah! An opening! “But if you don’t have the lions, how will you feed me to them, eh?!” I sneered.

The second lion-catcher mulled that over. “If you don’t give us the lions, we’ll find new ones, and feed you to those!” He sneered sneerier.

Damn! “You win this round,” I mutterbumbled.

“Then give us the turd-bored lions!” The first of the lion-catchers had regained his composure after having been smacked upside the head, and wasn’t pulling any punches now.

“Um… Maybe you should count your lions! Are you sure there are even any missing!?” I implored the gaggle of lion-catchers. It was probably the smartest thing I ever said in my life. One of the lion-catchers called up the zoo, confirmed that they did, in fact, have all their lions present (zero—the Julian Rhoodie Zoo doesn’t even have any lions, as a result of the Great Fluffernutter Deluge of ’58), and so the whole gaggle of them departed after much excussion, apologism, and beggary.

I returned to my concentrationalism and deepthoughtery as my doofus-shaped plan roared on and on, devouring each and every fnord it came across. I chuckled. I snickered. I even sniggered a little. No fnord was spared: Not the fnords under the bridge, not the fnords on the fneeway overpass, not the fnords sleeping in the goatburper park, not the fnords hiding under my fnidge, and not even the Fnords living next door. The three little fnordlings ran and ran, but they couldn’t escape my plan once it had been unleashed. Crunch, crunch, chomp! Bye-bye, little fnords!

Soon, all the fnords were gone, dead, kaput, and I didn’t even need to employ the bottle of buttwash I had kept in my bathroom as a last, last resort for fnord attacks.

I sniggered more and more, and even, dare I say, guffawed at the granfalloonery of it all.

Bye-bye, fnords!

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