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Fluffernutter… or treacle?

Stickied on January 2, 2011.

Yesterday being New Years, I got fooled a lot (and I fooled people a lot, but I do that every day, according to Samuel Dreckers and poor Mr. Wilson). One could even say I was the veritable New Years Fool at all the parties I went to (or at least I think I went to), for when that Dishwasher Synergy song erupted from my bed cushions again, there was only one thing for me to do: A-caroling I did go, naked with soda bottles in my ears once again (they’re very big ears). And a veritable plethora of parties I did indeed go to—some at the same time!

And as surely as I had granfallooned my way to the eigensmith’s shop last week in order to purchase a new eigenbriefcase (my trusty old isosceles valise had been run over by a bus on Friday and virtually reduced to a mere two dimensions), I knew that what I had just written made absolutely no sense, and, it was most likely true that this web bloob entry would make less and less sense with each passing sentence.

This whole week was shaping up to be just like that hot lesbian scene with River Tam and Kaywinnit Lee Frye that I’d seen on TV years ago, but actually completely different—not involving lesbians at all, but in fact large woolly mammoths. It was just like that time I’d gone motorscootering down Woolly Bully Boulevard on the back of a Methodist pastor by the name of Pootenanny Supreme.

God! Spare me your donutbrothels!

And, furthermore it was, once again, the crazy-crazying time!

Crazy-crazying time!

Crazy-crazying time!

Crazy-crazying time!

So I went galavanting around the Universe in a ship that bore a striking resemblance to a fin-stabilized penis. Planet Chuckles was my destination, the most muldersome planet ever conquered by the Chigs. But somebody threw pancakes all over the ground! So I couldn’t go. Alas! Alas it was a lass that bore a striking resemblance to Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, my most breastidious of femjoys—but no! It wasn’t—it was a basidiocarp of the most gnomeliest nature.

And then basidiocarps suddenly started sprouting from my ears: An ominous sign if there ever was one. And unfortunately, there were only ever ominous signs when one least wanted them. Have you ever noticed that? I have. In fact, I notice things all the time. Some people say that I’m a very observant fellow. They also say that I’m a very strange man, and not really a man either: That I am in fact a man-size squirrel who somehow just ended up looking like a man when his squirrelmother popped him out of her ovipositor. Or perhaps that’s not it at all.

Well, that was another unintentional ubble-bubble. Had another out-of-poofter experience again, I did. (This week I also found out that the cake is a lie. It is delicious cake—you must eat it!)

Only one question remained: Was the Great Fluffernutter Deluge of ’58 worse than the treacle mine disaster of 1829, or was it the other way around? And, more àpropos: Was “Felony Cockrazor” really Murderdeathcock’s best song ever, or was it “Livin’ in My Own Butthole”? My moles in the music piracy business tell me it really doesn’t matter, because only a barefoot Britney Spears and naked Lady GaGa can really squeeze out chart-toppers nowadays.

So that was really two remaining questions. So sue me. And don’t forget: I told you that the disorganized heap of words that is this week’s web bloob entry would make virtually no sense at by the time you got to the end. But you kept reading: And now, here you are. At the end of it.