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Hnnnngggghhhh!

Strained on May 1, 2011.

Hnnnngggghhhh! Hnngghh… hhhnnnnggggghhhhh… hhhnngghh!!

Nnnngggggghhhhhhhhhh… nngghh, nngghh, nngghh, nngghh… nnnnggggghhh!!

Hnngghh-nngghh-nnnggghhh-nnnngggghhhh!! Hnggh! Hnggh! Hnggh! Hnggh!!

Hhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnngggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!

Hhhnnnngg—!! Oh… dear, sweet doG in Heaven, finally!! Aaahhh… ohhh, doG yes… aaaahhhh… ohhh-ho-ho-hohhh… yesss…

Such were the exclamations emanating from my sixth-floor bathroom early Tuesday morning. What had most likely been the longest-running episode of constipation in the annals of constipation history was suddenly transformed into the biggest toilet clog ever seen by mankind… or gnomekind for that matter, and those little buggers sure can clog toilets!

It was a mountain of turds even Samuel Pepys wouldn’t dare to step in.

I stood up. I flushed. I ran out of there like a bat out of northern California. Not since that bizarre lesbian scene with Coraline and her Other Mother that I’d seen on TV years ago had I been in such a panic. Amidst sounds of swirling water, my palatial house began to shake. Pipes rattled and Yappie whined in his doggie little voice. How I wished I had a Carpathian Crapping Hound right then instead of the miserable Carpathian Yapping Hound that I did possess, as the former are highly skilled in dealing with the kind of crappy situation that was about to transpire.

And transpire it did: Before I knew what was even happening, I was sailing through the air along a graceful parabolic arc that no doubt ended somewhere hard and bone-crunching. Over Bouillabaisse Boulevard I flew; the curve reached its apex close to the center of town, and it was all downhill from there. I shrieked and babbled in a high-pitched falsetto I hadn’t used since that time Alyssa Milano had me by the gonads and wouldn’t let go. I pweed. I pawed the air. I spun slowly in circles. I used simple sentences in a clichéd effort to impart the breathless tone of my predicament to my readers.

Then I hit the ground.

Realizing that placing the previous sentence in its own paragraph was yet another hackneyed writer’s trick I really should stop using, I decided to go back and eat those <p> tags instead. Alas it was too late: They were already set in stone, and my teeth were not quite strong enough to munch stone (yet—although I’ve been training them). And, furthering my chagrin, my entire Pnårpy corpse had landed on a rather large and pointy stone, and was now quite broken. In fact, shortly after landing, it—or should I say, pieces of it—ended up in several different places.

“Well, it could be worse,” I mumblesputtered, looking around at the disaster and attempting to hold my jaw in place with my right hand (the non-severed one). “At least all of me landed within fifty feet of the rest of me.” Unfortunately, neither of my feet had landed in the same place as myself, so gathering up all the pieces turned into quite an arduous predicament of its own. But I was the Grand Pnårpissimo—nothing would stop me once I set my mind to it. (Now if only I knew where my mind had landed… oh, there it is!)

Returning home in a body bag on Wednesday, I immediately summoned my crack-smoking team of gnomish EMTs to reassemble my juicy corpse, which they did with their usual exacting precision. I didn’t even end up with an eye sewn into my bellybutton this time!

The remainder of Wednesday was boring, so I shan’t bore you with it.

Thursday visited me the day after, visited me in all its jovial horror. After futilely attempting to hide from its mocking countenance by crawling under my bed and stuffing coffee filters in my ears, I finally resigned myself to spending the day in its presence. I wept like a little girl still in her pigtails, but I endured it.

Friday was as boring as Wednesday, so I shan’t bore you with it either. (I shall, however, bore my new next-door neighbor with it later.)

Saturday, strangely, never arrived this week. I wondered if it was stuck in traffic as a result of that massive sheep-shipping accident that had closed the expressway for three days straight.

Sunday, however, did arrive: And, this Sunday—today!—was May Day, so with it came a gaggle of over six billion communists. I got the hell out of town faster than a bat out of the People’s Republic of Northern California, and spent the day relaxing with Ravna alongside the Oskeewhageetchum River and dancing around the maypole I had erected for just this purpose (dancing around it today). Rav had finally forgiven me for ruining her Hákarl a few weeks ago—she always forgives Crazy Ol’ Phil eventually!—and even danced around my maypole for a while! Woo-hoo-hey!

And thus ends another installment of the bizarre, otherworldly guffoonery that cruel Fate inflicts upon yours truly week after week. Goodnight, you salivating crotch-salamanders of damnation!