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Tater-totting crunkfire

Clapped on… clapped off on August 22, 2010.

Having sufficiently soothed my tired and slightly addled brain with the sweet, soothing sounds of Murderdeathcock, my favorite metal band, I unplugged my ears from my MP2½ player’s headphone jack, and put the player away. Whoever’s feet I was perseverating on last week I had completely forgotten about… finally.

But then, out of nowhere, suddenly… briefcase!! Gatorade!! Thousands of lightly built stars swarming into my face, screaming and singing and chanting and hooting and hollering and otherwise inefficiently stringing together words with superfliverous conjunctions. And how! Briefcase—Gatorade!! Dingleberry—hamster!! Alyssa—Milano!!

I again pulled out my MP2½ player and, slamming it down against the surface of my burlapwood desk, demanded it play another Murderdeathcock song. But it just sat there. I reiterated my demand, but it still just sat there. Suddenly I remembered that MP2½ players weren’t voice-activated, only moments before I had planned to blast it to smithereenlets with my trusty AK-47 (and a half?). And yet, there were verbiages and yak swarms pronounced upon the shiny polyisopoopalene surface of my daunty MP2½ player, uttering out the endless, erstwhile mutterings of Cthulhean denizenry of centuries long pissed.

Plowing forward before my faithful readers could ever possibly grasp the above paragraph, I plowed forward… endlessly smattering a nattering of lawn gnomes, perched upon a spattering of gestalt salt and gentrified gugs who searched endlessly for the remnants of the delicious female citizenry of B3K. But none were to be had, all their toenails and fingernipples long aplutter with wry, wizened fornicationalisms and paroxysms of oogle-boogling. A quee, a quee for tiny Miss Fwee, devoured by insensate space spiders pulsing through the Universe aquiver with alabasterous mirth and glee.

A plea for those littul kittons who silently guard Norstrilia and eastern Silesia, maddening all who might spy them even from afar, with their ectogonal lenses all aflame with crunkfire—not the crunkfire of desire like Ravna’s, but that which comes moments before one is bonked over the head with a rubber hammer for being a big party-pooper. Crunkfire! Aflame with crunkfire, I say—and shall continue to say unto the heat death of the Universe, some fifteen fliventillion years from now (give or take a spentury or two).

But this begs the question: Is crunkfire itself flammable, or is crunkfire the flame itself? Deeper still, is crunkfire inflammable? All who know have been paternostically shot to death, once in the back of the head, and twice in the lunar plexus. Perhaps a novice in a nunnery might know, or that girl-next-refrigerator that I met at the Wollongong wall gong exhibition four years ago. One thing I can say is, I sure had fun tater-totting her… from head to toe!

But, you’re probably asking, of what tater-totting does crunkfire inflame? From the front, or from the back? Should I even start a sentence with “From,” or will that old grammarian Mr. Wilson throttle me with a bottle for such a sentence? Will my email server add an angly brackety thing before it, which my computering gnomes tell me is a holdover from the antique emailing servers of the 1960s and 70s? Back to the topic at hand: Tater-totting from the front, or from the back. Four out of seven thousand smurfs recommend from behind, and upside-down, but I recommend from under the feet—because I am, after all, the Grand Pnårpissimo, the deepest lover of feet this side of the Whatanagawatchee River. (I made that up.)

I made that up! I make everything up—including my face every morning!





Through the Dumble Door this entire week has gone, and thus this entry must come to an end. An end, greater than the beginning, greater than all beginnings put together in one giant, disorganized heap… for this is the end to end all ends, to even end the end that ended all the other ends…

The end.