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Today being Mamårp’s day

Smothered on May 8, 2011.

Today being Mamårp’s day, I got fooled a lot (and I fooled people a lot, but I do that every day, according to Samuel Dreckers and that new guy who lives next door). But then I remembered that today was Mamårp’s day, not April Fools or New Years, so this made little sense. It made even less sense than that kimmy-gibbling accident that rocked my sleepy little town 69 months ago and which had led to Mayor Julian Rhoodie banning Full House reruns from ever being shown in town again.

However, this boob entry is dedicated to my dear old Mamårp, not some muldersome old sitcom nor our crotch rot of a mayor, so I decided to put that disaster out of my mind at once (along with that toothbrushing accident that closed Winerboffer Boulevard for six hours last Thursday), and concentrate on things ahead.

At precisely 10:00:01 this morning, I moose-antlered my dear old Mamårp as I had so many times before, and asked if she’d like to have breakfast at the local Pam & Meg’s. According to Pam—whom I had moose-antlered moments before—today’s special was garefowl eggs with a side of pan fries or smash browns, and either toad sausage or skeezle-wumpus patties. I asked Pam where she had come by some garefowl, as I had thought that such mythical beasts, save the flock that I had owned, were entirely mythical, but she ensured me that they were quite real—not to mention high in delicious and nutritious cadmium! Pam then offered to insure my toes for $1, but I assured her I was in need of no such services, which ensured I would get to keep that $1 for a little while longer—at least until I got beat up on the playground again and had it stolen from me.

I then demanded—at flunce!—that Pam put Meg on the phone, which she did, whom I then proceeded to shriek and babble at incoherently for seventeen whole minutes. Aaahhh, aaahhh, aaaiiieee, aaaiiieee, whacka-whacka, weeple-wopple, wowowowo, woowoowoo, woohoo-hoo-hoo! Pwee, pwee, pweedle deedle dee!

Finally, I assured Meg that I—with my dear old Mamårp in tow—would be arriving at Pam & Meg’s in less than another seventeen minutes, so she’d better have an entire cauldron of garefowl eggs ready for noshing, or I’d firebomb the place and claim the rubble in the name of the Queen of Spain. Meg squawked something about the impossibility of using a pair of moose antlers as a telephone, to which I hooted paradoxically; I then hung up before she had a chance to hoot (or toot) in rebuttal. Come Hell or high blood sugar, I would be feasting on buckets of garefowl eggs in a matter of minutes!

I then moose-antlered up my dear old Mamårp and invited her out to breakfast at Pam & Meg’s.

I then remembered that my dear old Mamårp had died years ago. Not since that awful, awful lesbian scene with Jessica Fletcher and Dorothy Zbornak that I’d seen on TV years ago had I been so thoroughly shocked as I was at this sudden revelation.

I then moose-antlered up my new neighbor and asked if he wanted to join me over garefowl and skeezle-wumpus. He was busy frantically looking for his lost cat (again), so he had to decline. I made loud pepperoni noises into the telephone and hung up in a huff.

I then wondered whom—if my dear old Mamårp really was dead—I had been moose-antlering every night for the past several months. This confuzzlement caused me to continue making loud pepperoni noises for another 1.4½±0.52 minutes.

I then put my confuzzlement out of my mind: Nearly seventeen minutes had passed by now, and if I didn’t bull my way down to Pam & Meg’s at once—at flunce!—a barefoot Pam would no doubt bonk me over the head with her pink flip-flops for demanding all those garefowl eggs but not showing up in order to feast mightily upon them.

I then started one more paragraph with “I then,” then ran out the door, my burnt-umber fez in hand and my shaggiest bolo tie strapped around my neck like a limp haddock. I had some noshin’ to get to!

Arriving at Pam & Meg’s, I bulled my way to the first table I laid corneas upon, plopped myself down, and waited to be waited on. A couple customers stared at me; the two I had ejected from the table which I now claimed sullenly got up off the floor and left the restaurant after my severe countenance left no doubt that I would gut them with my bare hands if they put up any resistance.

Satisfied, I then picked my corneas up off the table and screwed them back onto my eyes.

Meg arrived at my table moments later, wearing a lovely pair of orange flip-flops around her even lovelier bare feet. I complimented her choice of footwear as I always do, honked three times in as much of a goose-like manner I could muster, then demanded—again on pain of manual disembowelment—to know where my garefowl eggs were. Meg simpered unctuously and scurried off to fetch them. I was, unfortunately, unable to stop honking even after Meg had gone to fetch the cauldron, and by the time she returned, most of the other customers had gotten up and left in annoyance or disgust… or both! Pwee, hee, hee!

Meg returned and the noshing began. The garefowl eggs were quite tasty: Even tastier than that batch of fly eggs I had eaten for blunch on Thursday.

When the meal was over, Pam brought the check; I checked it out thoroughly after checking out Pam’s footwear even more thoroughly: Indeed she wore her prettiest pair of pink flip-flops. Pulling out my wallet, I shook at least a dozen pieces of dryer lint onto the table before bolting from my chair, whooping like a loon, and scurrying out of there faster than a wet hen in a midnight noodling contest. I would have paid through my nose, as I always do, but this proved quite impossible after a quarter got lodged sideways in my sinus cavity and wouldn’t come out no matter how hard I shook my head. So, dryer lint it was!

I then hit F5 and masturbated all over again. Good night, you flatulating groin-monkeys of consummation!