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Skipping Wednesday

Slid past on September 12, 2010.

And still… day after day… long after it finally went out of its mind with fornicatious goonflayvination, around and around those hot Goth chicks still worked at that squirrel-fox-dingo and…

But once again, that sordid, sweaty tale of the relentless jacking-and-jilling of one poor squirrel-fox-dingo by the merciless Goth chicks of Jack Off Jill is but an aside to what happened to yours truly this week. Alas, no squirrelly Goth chicks got any where near my package at any time this week, except perhaps during the few breaks with reality that I take from time to time, but whatever happens during those dementia-riddled episodes stays in those episodes—so that doesn’t count.

My week began on a Monday, as it most often does. (I’ll admit, a few times my week did confusingly begin on a Tuesday, but those were accidents… and once it even began on a Thursday, but that was all Plårp’s fault, not mine!) When Monday rolled around and reared its ugly, Mondiferous head, I tried my hardest to beat it back with a stick of pepperoni—and then an entire log made out of pepperoni—but nothing seemed to work. Monday was here to stay for those entire twenty-four long, horrible hours.

So I waited out Monday hiding in the subbasement of the cat-canning plant.

The next day was apparently a Tuesday—or so I assumed when I woke up, crawled to my front door, and opened it, finding myself staring directly into the gaping maw of a Tuesdiferous Tweedlebeast. It just sat there on its haunches, bearing Tuesday upon its back, waiting, until I finally caved in and accepted that it was, in fact, the day for Tues.

Upon receiving Tuesday from the dread Tweedlebeast, I crawled back into my palatial home and hid under Ravna’s feet for the remainder of the day. I hoped against hope that the next day would not be, to coin a phrase, Wednesdiferous, but I wasn’t very optimistic. Considering how many other times Wednesday had immediately followed Tuesday in the so-called “week,” why should I be optimistic?

And so the next day roared into action at precisely one second past 11:59:59 p.m. on Tuesday. I spent the first thirty hours of the day too frightened to come out from under Ravna’s feet, but after a great deal of coaxing and cajoling by Ravna, finally followed by a sound kicking with those oh-so-lovely feet, I came out and checked the calendar.


“Murple!?” I squiffled, squamously, as I spied the large “THU” written across the top of the invidious little square within my calendar that indicated that today was in fact today (and not yesterday, nor tomorrow).

“Yes, Thursday,” Ravna decreed with baleful finality. The gorillas, never ones to contradict their hoosie-fessed little skeetch-truncheon, backed her up most adamantly.

I grinned, my grin broadening into an ear-to-ear goonflayvin, as I realized what I had accomplished. I stood tall in triumph, preening my petals and plumage as I did so. I had overcome the usually orderly relentless march of time, and had escaped Wednesday completely!

Yes, indeed: I had done it. I preened louder. Yappie yapped. Ravna just rolled her eyes and demanded I paint her toenails.

[Feetnote: The squirrel-fox-dingo is dead—but it died happy!]