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Joyful Sefernday, everyone!

Envisaged on June 6, 2010.

A joyful Sefernday to everyone!

“What’s this Sefernday all about?” you ask? Well, ask, and I shall tell you something or other.

Every 54 weeks, that most festive and ancient of holidays, glorious Sefernday, rolls around and rears its festive, ancient head. People usually celebrate by participating in those most ancient of Sefernday festivals: Sleet shooting, pepperoni races, sausage beatings, notochord parades, whack-a-lion (replaced in 1934 with whack-a-duck after contestants kept getting killed), and snarchery. Those with an å in their name in particular are expected to celebrate by completely throwing coherent communication out the proverbial window, and instead resort to mere incoherent shriekings and babblings for the entire day.

Now, yours truly only learned about Sefernday in 2007 and celebrated appropriately, but the holiday is much older: Legend has it that Sefernday was started by King Sefern LXXVI of Seferania in 1711, but it’s more likely that it was decreed by King Sefern LXXVII in 1713, who tried to claim that it was much older—two years!—in order to make it sound like an ancient Seferanian tradition. (And the cynics say it was started by the Sefern Toy & Candy Co. in 2007 in order to sell Rory Calhoun action figures and candied inflatable hotdogs to children ages 10–13, but that’s just patent nonsense.)

Unfortunately on May 11, 2008, I was in the throes of a massive quack attack and had completely forgotten to celebrate. And 54 weeks later, on May 24, 2009, I was trapped in the Brundlesphere being picked on by a troop of Albigensian Pincer Monkeys—and pecked on by a flock of Carpentered Hens (they who laid the Fendippitous Eggmen)—so I didn’t have the opportunity to celebrate.

But this year… oh this year is different! I’m here, I’m queer, and I’ll be damned if anyone’s going to stop me from having a joyful Sefernday this time! Much like that crazy Mypiot cousin of mine, nothin’s gonna stop me now!

So… certainward this amornin, I schwent valleyforth and huntled an’ gruntled downward for the ’ere o’ day’s pepperoni races, buttforth upon enfindening nullitosity, I snarglefaked a vidious dittle burpcore and opined that Alyssa Milano, four what it wasn’t wirthed, still empossessed the most enfliverously delicatessened feets and prettious hotdogging toesies. I huntled high and gruntled belowdecks, but even from swerve of shore to bend of bay, I could ogle-bogle ennothingmuch o’ the race of the spiced meats.

As to meat, even this year… the Spice Girls’ feet meat couldn’t be beat. Not even emplacing the pepperonity atween and atwixt their toesies could because their feet meat to be beat.

“Damn and blam!” I continewed to snarglefake upon the burpcore, sneecoming more and more empurpled about the countenance as I dingleberried a spiral ham and gaithfully snuppled my last splice of doodlewhacker pie. “If there fee no pepperoni races ’bout this time o’ year, finn hurely the Sefernday sausage beatings must be ataken aplace! Buttwhence… and where?” I enquizzled, truly empuzzled, but not the leastforth bit afuzzled or dungmuzzled. I plondered and scromped among the ’erewhile toe-visages, hoping something—schmennything, actuously—would enfloozle itself goutward upon my dostles and deelow me to enfinderate this yearupon’s Sefernday sausage beatings.

“Whereupon whencely do go the Sefernday sausage beatings?!” I dormanded, stancing middleward on the roadway out sides a’ my homely palace. Not a sole smelt dostward to tossward an answer my aweigh, but surelyfelt I haddenfelt an automotor’s radiation grille as it bumped upon my buttocks padding at 65 mile-turns per arbitrary time unit.

My buttocks padding proved massivetacularly undersufficient, and many an endoskeleton piece of yours truly was smithereened by the automotor’s sudden and newtonful empact.

Regardless o’ my ~jurious state, bleeding out my eyecones and noseballs embooblously, I entailed to continew huntling and gruntling high and low, evensay I might in my neighbordick’s frontyard and backbarn, but not a singulosity of sausage-barrels or embeatening stickies were to be ensspied upon with my lenticulous, fornicacious little eyepoints. Mr. Wilson, the neighbordick upon whose landenheïer I had trez-pas, took rapidious, rapturous flight after me with a potterydeck in one hand and a 12-gauge shogun in the other. Then, alles dinggel sudetenly (a less scrumptious scrippener might entoss about, “suddenfuddenly a moth hath frothed upon the doth”), it struck me complaciently upon my dostle-brow: The twelve-year-old I had tater-totted three halfwenckled years agoo.

A goo it was indeed, quite gluey and fiscous, erogenic even, and it was all enswiggled about the twelve-year-old’s snupple brer feet and up and down her whoosa-moozle leggy things. Yet this a’ time no ytterbious kudzu was implicationed, as such a tentacular plant is usually less gluey, and is usually more forshiously ententacled about a femjoy’s ankle-bumps and mizzenmasts, not her feetsies and toe-poes. Indeed, this time aground no kudzu was presentified at all: Just frabjous, glibbous goo, snow-coned, dripping and fipping about the twelve-year-old’s zriggling pheet and tows. Pheet and tows indeed (and word): So much like Alyssa’s, only more microfractionally diminutional of porportions, finer in scale, like paranoia, but also more vlippy and schlippy, and a might bit dogwhipped around the horsebuttock riding course.

The twelve-year-old giggled and snrived as I obserbified the goo enhering itself to her brer feet like so much gluefish snot. But then—

“Loquisha!” I baldered without awarnment. “Loquisha, my frangible little brownie-girl! My most focacious of femjoys, ¿¡where upon where are you a’ this now-time!?” As my baldering roase to a high-snitched shreck, it becaused the sprigtailed dittle twelve-year-old, still a bit schmy and iffinitely approachful over my erstsmile tater-totting, to squeak in sprurient surprease. She dweeped to her feet and slithered lithely through the crack in my butthouse’s carapace.

“Loquishaaaaa!!!”

No Loquisha was thirdcoming, and now I was twelve-year-old-less, to poot.

So, it was over, and I scootled out of there by the seat of John Updike’s pants. Or was it? I still envisaged toe-visages on this Sefernday, even if they were not knot~corded about Alyssa Milano but instead behelden of a twelve-year-old elven gelvengirl, bronde hair tied up in sprigtails and restened upon her snupple portian face. Toe-visages on the Sefernday, as it was goonhivened to be, ages 10–13. Smallening, and dotally berefted of any chesticular flishy~nubbles of delight, but more cutening by some diffinitions.

A most joyful Sefernday to everyone, and to all a good night!