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In feckless search of a new body

Transplanted before January 23, 2011.

Pwee, pwee, pwee! They never caught meee!

And so this week began, bursting upon my calendar with all its feckless glory. (It had apparently lost all of its feck in a proofreading accident two weeks prior.) And here I was, still in need of a fresh body, having found nothing useful at the Christ-O-Mart last week. And if Dr. Unterguggenburgerheimer, Ph.D., M.D., J.D., S.T.D., d. 2011, were to be believed, I only had until some point this week before the girthy, malodorous bag of mostly water in which I presently resided finally succumbed to the 3,490 different diseases and syndromes which plagued it.

Randomly snuffling a burpcore, I idly determined that this Frooeyday, January 21, would be the day upon which my body would finally conk out… either leaving my soul to wander the Earth aimlessly for all time, or leaving my soul permanently trapped in a decomposing fleshy heap on the floor of my palatial home. The precise time would be 12:08; the details of how I determined this so exactly I shall spare my readers, but suffice it to say it involved pooping back and forth forever, for that shit is incomprehensible.

And then suddenly amidst my deep ponderings, my doorbell hooted. How haruspicious! What better time to greet guests than when one was only days away from sudden death by every disease known to mankind!

It was Mr. Wilson.

“What do you want, you tedious old unga-bungler?” I greeted him warmly.

“Um…”

“C’mon, spit it out!” My dubious and annoyed countenance left no doubt: I was overjoyed to see him. “I don’t have all day, you boring old cat-canner. I’m busy right now looking for a new body—before this one dies of 3,490 different diseases. Why don’t you go can some more cats and leave me in peace?”

“I don’t… can cats, Phillip. In fact I still don’t even know what that means. But if you need a new body, I—”

“Wait!” I yerked, almost yiffing in my esquilitude. “You have one!?” My heart did the fandango.

“Well, not exactly, but—”

“Butt nothing! No butts! You have a body for me! I want it! I need it! I’ll take it! How much do you want for it?”

Mr. Wilson paused, looking at me like I was speaking in tongues or had grown an extra head or two. “I… um…”

“I can trade you a genuine list of popes for this body, Wilson! The list is even signed by Rory Calhoun, from his brief stint as the official clerk of the Vatican back in 2001. Now isn’t that a great deal!?”

Wilson just stared.

“Okay then… how about my entire collection of Jada Fire videos?”

“I don’t have a God-damned body to sell you, you lunatic!” Mr. Wilson sounded mad. I think he was mad. Perhaps he was mad? “I just came over to ask you to move your damned car. You parked on my geese again!”

“Yerk!” I yerked again. This time I did yiff, right there in front of him—but out of panic, not glee. The hamster wheel resting gently on its side in my brainpan lurched into motion, Dinglebuckey running at a fever pace. “That’s not my car!”

Mr. Wilson looked at me like I was the stupidest man on Earth and had just shown up at his door to sell encyclopedias I had authored myself. “…Then why does it have ‘Pnårp!’ written all over it with blue and purple finger paint?”

“Um…” Clearly a change of tactic was called for: “Those aren’t your geese! They’re your flower pots!”

“Hmm…” Wilson pondered. I took the moment to jam my hands down my pants and stick my tongue out. “Well, you’re right about that! But still, can you plea—”

“Woo-hoo hey!!” I shrieked in triumph and slammed the door right on his fat nose. My doorbell refrained from any more sudden hooting, so either he had left, or he was so dumbstruck that he had an aneurysm right on my stoop. So, I had won this round—but I was sure he’d be back later (if he were still alive), again with some tedious demand. Wilson was nearly always tedious, and when he wasn’t, he was either monotonous, soporific, or just all-around boring and wearisome. That’s why we all loved him.

Wilson dealt with handily, I went back to panicking about finding a body within the next three days. Neither rishathra, jamaharon, nor even oo-mox held any sway over me, but at the moment that didn’t matter: Without a new body, soon, nothing would hold any sway over me—except perhaps the carrion-eating cockroaches and gnomes that would come to gnaw on my putrescent remains until nothing remained.

“Ohhhh, what am I going to do!?” I wailed, banshee-like, deciding the most expedient course of action at the moment would be to leap out the fourth-floor window of my palatial home. So I did so.

Brøderbunding into the ground with a bone-crunching splat!, that hot lesbian scene with Susan Ivanova and Talia Winters that I’d seen on TV years ago suddenly (and without warning!) flashed before my eyes. Woo-hoo hey! Inspiration! An idea! “A Vorlon dance troupe!” I mumbled between bouts of spitting out teeth and blood. Yappie, who had been waiting out in the yard for my precipitous fall from the fourth-floor window, looked at me as if I had decided to challenge Julian Rhoodie for the office of village idiot again. “What? Oh…”

And so I reluctantly dismissed my idea, for—ingenious as it was—it would get me no closer to finding a spry new body to deposit myself into.

And so Tweeseday ended, and Woodensday reared its foreboding, noisome head. And still I continued to inhabit this decaying body.

And so Woodensday ended, and Thrudsday reared its ominous, unctuous head. And still I continued to inhabit this decaying body.

And so Thrudsday ended, and Frooeyday reared its baleful, noxious head. This was it: Surely on this day I would die…

[Feetnote: I didn’t die. The late Dr. Unterguggenburgerheimer was an idiot after all. I’d take the time to tell you more, O dearest reader of mine, but I’m busy today stuffing 20-pound propane tanks up my nose and tooting blue flames out my buttocks. See you next week, crappers!]