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Ollanthorpe Memorial Hospital

Atrophied before October 10, 2010.

Having spent the remainder of last week thinking of nothing but my hamsters proved to be a tiny smidge of a mistake: By remaining in one place for several days—my computery chair, to be meticulously precise—I had caused myself a number of serious physiological problematicisms, not the least of which was dehydration, constipation, and the beginnings of muscle atrophy, starvation, and polydactyly. My balls were itchin’ up a storm, too.

These were all serious problems, so when this week rolled around and reared its spiteful, atrocious head, I resolved to rise from my chair at once and immediately attend to my bathroomly duties, and upon completing that dysplumbious task, I planned to calmly walk into one of my kitchens (the one without the pincer monkeys!) in order to fetch a small glass of water and a handful of food—all in order to alleviate the annoyances my in-place hamster-obsessing had caused. Finally, I would scratch my balls for no less than ½πr2 minutes.

Alas, none of this was to be, for upon attempting to stand up, I realized I couldn’t stand up—and so I didn’t stand up at all, but instead just sat there, merely pondering upon my desire to stand up, and my nascent inability to do so (to stand up). Clearly help in standing up would be required, so I summoned at once my trusty and faithful yapping neighbor, Mr. Maximilian X. Wilson. Since I couldn’t even reach the telepoon on the other side of the room, I called for Mr. Wilson in the only way I could: “Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!! Help!!! Someone help!!! Mmmmiiiisssstttteeeerrrr Wwwwiiiillllssssoooonnnn!!!!”

Help came at once, but not in the form of my ostencilious neighbor: Instead it came in the form of a single small spider casually scurrying across my dirtwood floor in search of tasty, tasty insects. I eeped and meeped at my eight-legged little friend, murping and burping a bit as I did so, but the spider didn’t stray from its course in order to render assistance to yours truly. In fact, it completely ignored me.

Then it ate a bug.

Crests fallen, I watched it scurry out of the room and down the hall. My concern over my gorplious predicament grew exponentially with each passing minute—especially the longer ones—until I suddenly remembered that my girthy frame was capable of more methods of locomotion than simply the upright bipedal. Smurfing gibbously with my sudden sinecurious sense of empowerment, I flopped down onto the floor with a squoosh! not unlike the sound of Alyssa Milano’s naked feet stomping flat a sandwich bag full of raw hamburger. I then began to roll myself slowly in the direction of the bathroom immediately adjacent to my computery room. My salamander-like gyrations proved to be a highly successful tactic—until I accidentally lodged myself between the sink and toilet and couldn’t dislodge myself no matter how hard I tried.

I reverted to my original plan: “Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!! Help!!! Someone help!!! Mmmmiiiisssstttteeeerrrr Wwwwiiiillllssssoooonnnn!!!!”

This time, Mr. Wilson was quick to respond: Through my front door he came crashing, smashing everything in the way as he did so, teeth gnashing as he gnawed on the bony tulip he always kept in his hexagonal valise for just these occasions. Laden down with mirth and alabaster, he finally arrived at the door jamb of my most computerous chamber, beyond which was the porcelain catacomb in which I had so lipotacularly wedged myself. Mr. Wilson paused a moment to assess the situation, while the garden gnomes that normally accreted along the door jambs swayed and laughed in the breeze, mocking me in my predilicament.

“What are you doing!?” I shouted in Mr. Wilson’s direction, tongue fnobbing globbously from my mouth. My corneas went all askitter with turmeric and fright. “Why aren’t you doing anything!? Why won’t you do something!?”

Poor, forlorn Mr. Wilson just looked at me with his poor, forlorn little eyes. He shook his head. I shook my earlobes. He rolled his eyes. I rolled around on the floor piteously. Then he jammed his left hand in his hip pocket and produced a crumpled-up piece of paper, which he uncrumpled carefully and began reading from in slow, somberous tones: “Dear Phillip. Go suck another garnering-pole, you unga-bung—”

The next thing I remember was waking up this past Thursday in a small white bed in Ollanthorpe Memorial Hospital on Hydrangea Street. From what the lawn gnomes snittering about the baseboards and wainscoting tell me, upon realizing that Mr. Wilson had arrived not to render help, but instead merely to deliver another terse missive from Ol’ Dicko Dreckers, I had suddenly experienced a stupendous bout of stressicular granfallooning, which in turn caused me to suffer a massive phallocardial infarction. Mr. Wilson, always the good neighbor despite all those years that I’ve mistreated him, his house, and his cat-canning plant (which I plan to continue doing unabated!), had then indeed unwedged me from that cold, enamelly place in which I really, really didn’t want to be wedged, and had delivered me to the hospital, whereupon a clutch of doctors, nurses, medical students, and random people off the street had worked around the clock in order to save my Pnårpy little life.

Save my life they had… and according to Dr. Unterguggenburgerheimer, Ph.D., M.D., J.D., S.T.D., I would be back to horsebuttock riding in no time!