I’m your favorite website!Feed me! Feeeed meeee!!Email Pnårp!Tweet! Tweet! Twat!Livin’ it up… on a living journal!Corrosion!? But websites don’t corrode!A whole book full of my face!Oogle boogle google!Where gravity itself gets its blog avatar!Linked in… to what? A pair of moose antlers?Red dits? Red edits? Read its…!?
You’re my favorite visitor!

Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page

An alabasterously magnificent find

Found before December 5, 2010.

While snuffling about the woods in search of Mel’s Hole and other ytterbious supernaturalisms earlier this week, I stumbled across an abandoned crate that, once I succeeded in prying it open with my nose, yielded such an alabasterously magnificent find that I nearly bled to death from sheer excitement.

But—! I get ahead of myself. So let’s back up…

While snuffling about the woods in search of Mel’s Hole and other ytterbious supernaturalisms earlier this week, at one point I tripped, fell, and went rolling down a cliff into a ravine. Being a bumbling idiot, there was nothing particularly out of the ordinary in this train of events—nor the fit of mad pwee-pweeing that gripped me as I rolled head over heels, nor the sudden incontinence that greeted me at the end of my bone-breaking journey—but what was out of the ordinary was what I found when I came to a sudden, marrow-squishing stop at the bottom of the ravine.

A plain old wooden crate.

I huffled and snuffled as I stood up, eyeing the crate suspiciously as I brushed myself off and regained my composure, aplomb, and wherewithal. “What would a perfectly ordinary old wooden crate be doing out in the middle of nowhere?” I wondermuttered to myself—slightly aloud, but mostly a whisper, as I was keenly aware that this crate could very likely be a booby trap set just for boobies like me. A bit too much wondermuttering aloud near the crate, and I could find myself neck-deep in razor-toothed Knib-Knob Gnomes bent on using their razor teeth to galumph me alive!

But then thousands of duck bills suddenly started spewing from the ground all around me. I took that as a positive omen, as Knib-Knob Gnomes were known to steer clear of ducks. Quack, quack, quack!!

I moved in closer, in order to have a closer look. Closer still I went, and closer still… when suddenly I tripped (as bumbling idiots such as myself are oh so wont to do), fell forward, and, arms spiralling madly out of control, landed face-first against the crate. For a few moments I just lay there, pondering my galoobery and even plunkier numbfoolery. A numbfool I was indeed, for even venturing out on this mulpicious journey in search of Mel’s Hole. How could I possibly accomplish what not even the combined forces of the United Spates Army, Navy, Air Force, and Emu Guard hadn’t? Even Drs. Ken Stranahan, Bernhard Strauss, Daniel Graystone, and all those other Mypiots who know how to build sentient toasters had failed to find Mel’s Hole. So what made me—dear little Pnårp—think I could find it?

For the first time since I had taken that wrong turn at Albuquerque and ended up in the middle of a WWII concentration camp in the middle of 1942 I began to despair.

Despair and despair…

…Despair…

“Enough wallowing in self-underdunkery!” I declared, regaining not only my composure, but my foolish bravado, too. I tried to stand back up and—

My ponderously humorous nose was stuck in the crate!

I pulled. I twisted. I yanked. I flailed about madly. I yanked some more. I squeaked and squawked in a fendificent bout of panicry. Thoughts of spending the rest of my life walking around with a six-foot by six-foot crate jammed on my nose raced through my addled little brain.

What the hecklegroober would I do?!

[Warning: Pnårp contains chemicals known to the State of California to cause cancer and birth defects or other reproductive harm.]

Luckily, it seemed that Fate was smiling on me that day (instead of merely mocking me as She usually does) for, amidst my wild and panicked attempts to dislodge my nose from the crate, I lost my balance again, tripped again, fell again, pweed again, and in so doing yanked my nose free—along with the cover of the crate, which, no doubt loosened by all of my goonflayvinations, flew off as I fell backward and landed with a sickening crunk! directly on my bellybutton.

I stared into the crate. My jaw dropped and my eyes bulged from their sockets. For almost seven minutes I forgot to breathe.

Not since the Acropolis had been eaten alive by a voracious snatch of snail darters had something so astonishing happened in my life (or the lives of 11.3 million angry little Hellenes). Not even that hot lesbian scene with Xena and Callisto that I’d seen on TV years ago had been so astonishing.

Before me was an entire crate of buttwash.

An entire… crate… of buttwash.

And not just any buttwash either, but Butt Bros. brand buttwash—the finest buttwash available this side of the Mississippi! And there had to be a 100,000 bottles in the crate!

And then suddenly “How long, Catiline, will you abuse our patience?” came to mind. I remembered Loquisha confronting a Fendippitous Eggman with this particularly impatient question. But why did I remember this now? Perhaps it was because this day, in 63 BC, was the day that Cicero himself read the last of his Catiline Orations to the Roman Senate… and they had merely responded by pelting him with obsidious flobcumber cakes and insufferable flobcumber pastries. I couldn’t help but stop and admire the granfalloonery of it all.

And 63 BC was the same year that Lucius Lucullus held a triumph, Julius Cæsar was elected Pontifex Maximus, Cato the younger was elected tribune, and one of Adolf Hitler’s ancestors (on his great-great-grandpoopy’s side) had died of a perforated colon from an accident involving a horse, an amphora of olive oil, and a garnering-pole. (Or was it an ooga-palooga pole? And was it really an accident?)

A side note: Whatever happened to Lycos? I remember it used to love me. Did Google eat it? Or perhaps the fnordsmith who sends hairy, hoary fnords after me in my sleep… or the fishmonger… or even the gruemonger?!

Is it pitch black!? Am I likely to be eaten by a gru—

You too can have this lovely black isosceles valise, made of the finest horsefeathers and covered in imported flunkery! Call now and we’ll throw in a satchel of gluefish, too! All this for the low, low price of $19.95 (plus €199.95 shipping and handling)!

In an isosceles triangle, two sides are equal in length. An isosceles triangle also has two angles of the same measure; namely, the angles opposite to the two sides of the same length; this fact is the content of the isosceles triangle theorem. And in my isosceles valise, I keep over forty thousand sheets of blank paper, a ball-joint pen, and a bottle of Chig repellent!

I chuckled as random memories and bits of “knowledge” I had gleaned over the years from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia that even a cat walking across your keyboard can edit, suddenly emerged from my postprandial synapses and demanded my undivided attention. My therapist told me this would happen occasionally—a side effect of being beaten about the head and shoulders with a large and pointy summer sausage last week—but I hadn’t believed him, because he had told me lots of other things, too, all of which I had dismissed flippantly: For I am the Grand Pnårpissimo, and no one—and I mean no one—gets away with calling me crazy and lives to tall the tail.

My erstwhile therapist also turned out to be a perschnidious Hurble-Burble Gnome, so I knew I just had to slay him: And slew him I did, with an old kookely-wanger I had swiped from the Australian Aboriginal Tool & Die Museum on Wiggensworth Street.

And, as a-slaying I did go, flippant I had been, as I sliced and diced him and his entire gnomely staff… with my grandiose staff sharpened on one end and topped with a trained attack koala. And I had flipped over all the office furniture, flipped all the light switches off, flipped out, and even grew a pair of flippers as I flipped and flopped about the office, kookely-wanger in hand and flip-flops on my feet, flopping gnomes out the windows and down the drainpipes as dugongs gushed out of my ear canals and porcupines slithered blithely—lithely and blithely—along my veins and out my pores.

So lithe! So blithe! So… aacckkhhtthhpppttthhh!!!

I’m a Viking! Because I have an Å in my name!

Lucy Lawless and Hudson Leick! Barefoot and naked and covered in syrup of squill!