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A little pedicatio

Irrumated on May 16, 2010.

Once again, my house had become loaded with mercury(II) fulminate and 2,3-dimercapto-1-propanesulfonic acid, and I had to do something about it before it killed me, my entire gorilla family, and everyone else in a five-block radius.

When the poison control team arrived, after many gesticulations and goonflayvinations, they ordered me to leave my palatial house while they disenfumigated it, lest I not only die from the highly poisonous chemicals already riddling my home, but I die a second time from the chemicals they planned to use to clean up the less poisonous ones. When I inquired as to why I wasn’t dead already, the team leader just stared at me like a flobcumber farmer that was struck dumb by a retard shower. The other poison control people just piffled and babbled. Their reaction suddenly reminded me that an unruly beast must be stopped of his provender, so I donned my leisure suit and bolo tie, put on my sepia fez (a fresh one I bought from Harry Whyte’s Asshattery last week), and left at once.

With nothing better to do, I took a stroll down Gropecunt Lane for a little pedicatio and irrumatio. I had learned recently that Madame Beaux-Pieds’ brothel had been chased out of its previous location on Wiggensworth Street by a particularly blue-haired member of the local Distemperance League, and so it had relocated to this aptly named lane. (It was more of an alley really, but who’s measuring?)

Baa-aa-aaa-aa-aaa-aaah!!

Pedicatio and irrumatio having been completed, and enjoyed thoroughly—and goats duly returned to the front desk of Madame Beaux-Pieds’ brothel—I then decided to take a wander out into the middle of the freeway and spin in circles until I became too dizzy to stand upright. I’m not sure what compelled me to do so, but it may have had something to do with the runcible spoon that I had found in my underunderwear drawer this morning. Or maybe it didn’t.

I’m glad to report that this little dalliance upon the freeway was mostly uneventful, except for the six cars and two semi-trailers that ran me over after I had pweed myself into a fetal position on the pavement, my head spinning wildly and dugongs pouring out of my ear canals and nose canals like there would be no tomorrow. Other than twenty-six cracked ribs, a bent penis, and my liver being squeezed out through my left eye socket, my petals and plumage were mostly unscathed.

And, after nearly being struck by a third truck hauling a 53' shipping container laden with solid bricks of plumbum, I suddenly realized that there could have been a good chance that there would have been no tomorrow.

Returning home to a mercury-free house, I immediately sat down and composed this disorganized dogpile of words and letters that you hold before you. I hope you’re happy!