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Requiem for a triangular briefcase

Immured on January 30, 2011.

Now that the urgent matter of finding a new body in which to live out my days was finally dispensed with, I could turn my goaty ol’ mind to less urgent matters: Most importantly, a proper funeral for my trusty old triangular briefcase, which—as my more obsessive-compulsive readers must remember—was hit by a bus a few weeks ago.

The funeral was held at 12:08 on Thrudsday (née Thursday) this week. It was a beautiful ceremony; all my friends, even some of my enemies, and a bunch of people I don’t even know attended. The eulogy was read by Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir in all her porcelain-white beauty; six gnomely servants that were on loan from Trûmglor’s gnomish kingdom served as pallbearers. I bawled my eyes out as Ravna spoke of all the great times my isosceles valise and I had had together:

When we first met. When those perschnidious screaming stars attempted to take him away from me. When Regina and Genevieve von Sträsmussenbörg kicked me out, and he was all I had left. When we saved Ollanthorpe Savings Bank from a clutch of gnomes together. When we defeated Mr. Wilson together. When I tried to sue him for no particular reason. When he protected me first against Sam the F14 fraudster and then against Grumfeld van der Spooijwanker. When he helped me procure a pair of ducks. And lastly when we went to city hall together and then, finally, to Pam & Meg’s.

And then our time together was cut short so unexpectedly. I bawled some more, lacrimating even more than I lactated. And then as the gnomes slowly lowered his tiny coffin into the grave, I groped about on the ground for my eyes which I had bawled out moments before. Fortunately I found them before anyone stepped on them.

Vi, tafalk! I shouted at the gravedigger for no particular reason as I departed the Mapplethorpe Street cemetery. Jaffa, kree!

I returned home at 12:08, to an eerily empty and lonely (but still palatial!) house.

On Frooeyday ( Friday), I was busy the whole day stuffing graphite pencils up my nose and squeezing fullerenes out my buttocks, so if anything notable happened, I wasn’t aware of it. In fact, with all that graphite up my nose, I wasn’t aware of much at all.

“How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood?” Mr. Wilson asked me at 12:08 this afternoon. I wondered if he had called me on my moose antlers for just this reason, or if there was something more on his boring little mind.

But I had a better question first: “How much wood wouldn’t a Wundt-chuck chuck if a Wundt-chuck wouldn’t chuck wood?” This inquiry left Mr. Wilson perplexed, momentarily silent, confused, and even bemused—but instead of answering my question, he instead demanded that I go over to his house and clean up the enormous pile of goose feces in his back yard. Naturally, I immediately began squiffling and babbling, refusing to admit that I had anything to do with either the pile or the geese—at least not since that hot lesbian scene with Sha’re and Hathor that I’d seen on TV years ago. (And man, was it hot!) Mr. Wilson had tried this fecal ruse weeks ago, I recalled, blaming my gorillas that time as part of his clever, manipulative scheme. But I had seen right through it, as surely as I could see through the Wundt-Burble Borkessler® glass sandals that adorned Jennifer Love Hewitt’s delicate feet in all my fantasies.

“Those aren’t your geese! They’re your flower pots!” I tried the same gambit I had used last week on him. “Wundt, Wundt, Wundt!” I even added, for added effect.

Alas, the old cat-canner was quick to retort: “I know, damn it! They’re your geese! And they’ve been out there making that pile for months!” I yerked softly, suddenly remembering: Those were my geese. Or more specifically, those were Genevieve’s geese, which had been under my care during April—until I had realized that it was impossible to toilet-train the little honkers, and had released them all into Mr. Wilson’s back yard in order to rid myself of them and provide myself with months of amusement.

“But… I had eggs that day! Eggs! I protested. But it didn’t matter to Mr. Wilson, who only answered quinquebratorially.

So, I said the only thing that came to mind: “Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wundt! Wun—!”

My moose antlers went click! and there was silence at the other end of the line. I yodeled triumphantly and did the Dance of Joy—believing I had won this round.

However, later (at 12:08 specifically), when I was in the middle of painting “Pnårp: 1, Mr. Wilson: 0!” all over my garage door in gaudy blue and purple finger paint, Mr. Wilson came stomping up my driveway, fists clenched and nose-hairs bulging. He had his 12-gauge toilet plunger in hand. Clearly, more drastic measures were called for in ridding myself of this small, tedious man… so I dropped the jar of finger paint and flew out of there faster than Brud Parsnip at a Vorlon dance recital.

“Wundt, Wundt, Wundt-Wundt-Wundt!!”

[Feetnote: It is in fact only forbidden to send hamsters via UPS if they are riding on top of a dog. In all other cases, hamsters are permitted, and, if wrapped in transparent packaging tape, encouraged.]