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Pnårp.com!

Crossing Pnårp Road on March 13, 2011.

I’m so enfliverously effunctuated this week—so full of mirth and alabaster I could pop! As of Mooingday (six days ago, for those of you who are counting—and can count), Pnårp.com is finally mine: That is, the domain name with the little spingly-bongle over the A… the little spingly-bongle that makes me me! A bunch of little guys inside my computer called the Puny Code Police keep insisting that “Pnårp.com” is really spelled Xn--pnrp-roa.com every single time I bang it out on the ol’ board o’ keys, but I—the Grand Pnårpissimo, the one and only!—think they’re just out to spoil all my fun like usual!

You fun-spoilers, you!

After successfully registering my efflubious new domain, I called up everyone under P in the phone book and announced the awesome news! Most people were so overjoyed that they didn’t, for once, threaten to call Samuel Dreckers to buttbuttinate me in my sleep with a sack of doorknobs, but that still didn’t prevent most of them from calling me an unga-pelunger and threatening to call the Puny Code Police if I didn’t stop redialing at once.

Sufficiently chastened that my method of announcery was more annoying than useful, I then called up everyone under N in the phone book and recommended to them that they might need a fork—or perhaps a spork if no forks were within arm’s reach. Most people thanked me kindly and then hung up before I could continue to make recommendations as to their immediate cutlery needs.

Finally, I attempted to call up everyone under Å in the phone book, but such a spingly-bongled letter didn’t seem to exist in the fastidious little directory. (At least I exist!) So instead I called up everyone under A, and proceeded to ask them if they wanted to take a ride on my disco stick. Most declined, although one individual—I think his name was Borb—kept trying to force that stupid Stoop Kid meme again and again. Much to my chagrin, he continued even after I had hung up the phone and even after I had hung my phone from the rafters.

Criminal necromancy notwithstanding, I then called up the undead spirit of Joseph Curwen and we did the Dance of Joy together. Atop sprigs of mint did we dance that Mypiotic dance, perhaps funnier-looking than a Goa’uld dance troupe, but still slightly less humorous than Bozo the Clown erotica. And when it was over, fortunately old Joseph didn’t try to kill and impersonate me like he had others, but still the question remained: Was the object now sitting before me on my grumnutterous desk truly a tortellini, or was it in fact a nefarious tortelloni masquerading as one of its smaller and more compact cousins? I resolved to determine this at once, regardless of the army of rotini and ziti clattering at my door demanding billeting for the night.

Tweeseday was mostly a wash, as my entire house was filled to the brim with an army of armed pasta. I determined nothing, and all the pasta vanished by 10:39:42.687−05:00 in the evening.

Peace and quiet restored to a fever pitch, on Wundtsday ( Woodensday) I spent most of the morning stuffing 6EQUJ5 in my big, big ears and emitting 1420.4556 MHz radio waves from my buttocks. At the time it seemed like an appropriate way to celebrate my newfound freedom from my erstwhile pasta-ly overlords—and continue celebrating my newfound domain name, Pnårp.com. Wundt, Wundt, Wundt-Wundt-Wundt!!

Thursday (“Thursday” once again, Þrúðr having been in a disastrous dirigible-submerging accident and no longer able to serve as the day’s patron goddess) proved to be the second highlight of this past week, when I suddenly, amidst yet another bout of parsimonious grumnuttery and excess comma usage, remembered that hot lesbian scene with Stephanie Tanner and Kimmy Gibbler that I’d seen on TV years ago. This ushered in the most ubblabumptuous bit of goonflayvination I had undertaken in weeks, which lasted over 3.4¾ hours (plus or minus one ear) and left over 600 paper towels dead and another 800 mortally wounded.

Am I lost? Am I low on oil? Are my pistons slapping again? Should I slap Loquisha’s butt in return? Not even the exotic disease known as Znoobilalia would stop me this time (although it might strop me—a fortuitous typo indeed).

Amidships contemplating spanking my little brown Loquisha’s big brown butt, suddenly pork fried rice started spewing from the ground: An ominous sign if there ever was one. And then beef teriyaki (Meat on a stick!—stick!—stick!) began descending from the sky in clumps: Yet another ominous sign to end all ominous signs. Of what these portents portended, I knew not; praying to the Sacred Chicken Finger and the Holy Crab Rangoon hadn’t helped me the last six times I had experienced similar experiences, so I saw little point in trying this time. And why so many ominous signs and portents constantly invaded my Pnårpy little life, I also knew not; perhaps it simply proved to be a useful plot device time and again? Placing a lampshade over my pointy cranium, I decided to investigate this further…

But alas it was not to be, for my new neighbor then suddenly called me up, hysterical that he had lost his cat. Nixing the idea to mock him relentlessly for such a mundane problem (compared to the ones I typically have!) I instead merely suggested that he check the cat-canning plant to see if his cat had been canned. But then I recalled that the cat-canning plant no longer existed—and neither did the Hormel spam-canning plant, into which it had been furtively converted, because some damn fool had blown it up! But then, also recalling that it was incredibly likely that I was the very “damn fool” responsible for such an explosion of spam, I sheepishly changed the topic (A sheep in your furnace! Fornicating with gusto and glee!) and pledged to help my new neighbor find his precious cat, first by looking around in my palatial home, and then by whizgiggling in circles in my back yard until I was dizzy and as dehydrated as a glorpf-snake that accidentally found itself floating in interstellar space.

So, let’s see. Cat. Find the cat. Where is the cat? Where would I hide if I were a cat? Much like the methodology I employ when ogling Alyssa Milano, I resolved to start at the bottom and work my way up. Going down into my cellar to look I stepped into a great heap of turds. This angered me, as did the seeming lack of direction in this week’s blargh entry, so I decided to stop writing at once.