Gnomes destroying my brain and kidneys
Urinated on on July 18, 2010.
Why those gnomes want to destroy my brain and kidneys was answered quite promptly on Monday this past week, about seven point two four six six six one (and a half) minutes after I finished composing that blargh entry and spewed it forth upon the glorious Internet.
Why was simple: My brain tastes yummy and my kidneys are even yummier. At least to the gnomes, that is. And Lyekka, that carnivorous plant lady that rides around in space on a big bug.
So, dear reader, I spent this past week running in stark, raving terror about my palatial home and its curtilage trying to escape the gaping maws of billions and billions of ceramic lawn gnomes come to life. I have to say, it wasn’t a fun experience—not at all. It was even less fun than that time I had dugongs pouring out of my ear canals—and certainly a lot less fun than playing with Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir’s feet and toes.
Broxholm and Kreeblim couldn’t even help me this time, and Gra, trained assassin, just stood idly by. Poor Mr. Wilson, my pedantic and boring next-door neighbor, came out of his house to watch me run around for a few minutes, but instead of offering any assistance (such as gunning the gnomes down with his 12-gauge toilet plunger), he just shook his head, muttered something pedantic, and forlornly shuffled back into his modest little house next to my palatial one.
Zooty, zoot-zoot! Tickaborp! Ticka, ticka-ticka, tickaborp! Borp! Borp!!
After my 11,903rd circuit about my house, hands and nads waving wildly in the air in stark, raving terror, Alyssa Milano, my favorite barefooted little missy, suddenly stopped by and informed me what a creep I was for fantasizing about her feet and toes all these years. I noticed that, at the moment, she was quite barefoot, her toes splayed finely in my muddy driveway, so I surmised this was nothing more than an elaborate ruse by Haldûrburðgar, gnome king, to trick me into thinking that my dear, sweet Alyssa didn’t enjoy my fetishistic attention.
“Horrible gnomes!” I shouted, picking up a pick-axe and charging at (what only appeared to be, but wasn’t actually) Alyssa Milano. “Horrible, hairy, hoary gnomes! Die, you tricksters! You icksta-plicksters! Alyssa’s feetsies shall always be mine! Raaaaarrrrrggggghhhh!!”
And suddenly what was before me was not Alyssa Milano, barefoot and clad in nothing but a three-piece pepperoni bathing suit, but instead Captain David Pinnfarb of the HMS Gormless Bastard, who, as I had discovered years ago, was actually a Knib-Knob Gnome!
Suddenly and without warning, Mountain Dew started spewing forth from the ground. I ignored it, dismissing it as nothing more than yet another gnomely trick to confuse yours truly, and continued my grim charge toward the Knib-Knob Gnome standing before me in place of my dearest barefooted little missy. At the last moment, Pinnfarb lunged out of the way; I tripped, fell, rolled, cracked my head open on a rock, and spilled my brains all over the driveway.
Pinnfarb cackled. I stood up and cackled back: As if I needed all those brains anyway!
“Pliggle, pluggle, ploggle!” Pinnfarb suddenly called out to me. I snarglefaked back, gormlessly shunting an answer of “Meep, mippy, morp!” in his direction. More brains spilled out of my head and splashed onto the muddy ground. And right on cue, off in the distance, a dog barked. (I barked back.)
Aimlessly brøderbunding backwards, I spun around to see Pinnfarb spiraling toward me with a kookely-wanger in one hand and a dormfuddie in the other. (For those not “in the know,” a kookely-wanger is an Australian aboriginal weapon composed of a sharpened tree branch with a live koala perched on the end of it, and a dormfuddie is a pair of traditional Scottish underwear.) I shrieked in terror, and then anger… then dodged, parried, and did a little pirouette on the very spot that the Alyssa Milano phantasm had previously planted its supple, splayed toes. If only Gra had been here to see me now.
Pinnfarb stopped to snicker with cifrection at my girlish maneuvers, dropping his guard. My moment was at hand—I struck back: Out came the bottle of buttwash that I kept concealed in a holster inside my pants. In one graceful motion, I uncapped the bottle and squeezed it with all my might right in Pinnfarb’s snarling face.
The Knib-Knob Gnome reeled back, arms and tongue flailing. I gave him another good squirt right in the left nostril. He collapsed to the ground, gurgling and burbling as the heavy-duty buttwash flayed his cranium from the inside-out. Brains spewed everywhere, his corneas popped, and his tiny, tiny pineal gland shot from his forehead and burst with a heartening squick! as it hit the ground. Pinnfarb’s demise was even more dramatic than what I’d done to Borb with that desiccated ham, even more dramatic than how Mr. Wilson had met his end at my hands a long, long time ago in a place right nearby. Not even the death of my old friend Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker at Pam & Meg’s had been this gooey.
Pinnfarb having been dispatched handily, I collapsed to the ground myself, in an exhausted and constipated heap. Upon regaining my wherewithal (what would I do without my wherewithal?), I quickly checked myself over and found that my kidneys were still intact, uneaten. I hobbled over to my driveway and scooped up my brains—or what was left of them. Cracking open my head and reinstalling them proved to be most tedious, considering that they had been uninstalled improperly and now the damned software installer couldn’t figure out what to do. “These brains are already installed.” Damn you, Windows…!