The end of doodlewhacker pie
Bloomed on June 26, 2011.
Even a full week after this year’s enlugubrious Sefernday festivalories ended, I continued to mouse down… and mouse down… and—oh, so much fun!—mouse down and down and down! We all mouse down and down and down! I only stopped when I finally hit the bottom of my seven-storey LCD computing monitor and passed right through onto the top of my desk (to wit, my desktop). My computing mouse sat there and looked at me reproachfully. It wanted more. I stared back at the mousy little thing and shrugged. “What do you want me to do? Get an eight-storey LCD display? Up yours, little mouse!”
And thus, entirely through fault of my own, my gripping tale of mousing down and down and down had come to an end. So, having nothing else to do this morning, I set myself a new life goal: Writing the definitive guide to preventing Jeep seat.
However, by two o’click this Sunday afternoon, I had come to realize—quite thoroughly, actually—that I knew little to nothing about this insidious disease. Trench foot, yes. Swimmer’s ear and tennis elbow, yup. Lawyer’s ass… very much so. I was even well-versed in the diagnosis, pathology, etiology, and sphygmology of crotch rot. But Jeep seat? Not a clue. Not a single clue in a whole deep, blue sea of clues. So, after much moaning and groaning, crying and bawling, throwing things, and even a teensy bit of a nervous breakdown, I scratched off yet another possibility from the long, long list of Useful Things Pnårp Could Do with His Life but Hasn’t. I then sat down and ate an entire bowl of fried moose synapse–flavored ice cream.
Once again having nothing else to do this morning (which had actually already become the dreaded… afternoon), I thought perhaps I could mouse up for a while. But after only a mere 2±6 hours, this became interminably boring. The little monkeys clattering around in my cranium were in desperate need of some exercise, and if I didn’t provide it—and soon!—all of my tiny little brainmonkeys would most likely claw and gnaw their way out through my eye sockets and escape forever. What would I do without any monkeys inside my brainpan!?
And then my chocolate starting blooming.
I rushed down to the kitchen in a gibbering panic, waving my arms and hooting like a madwoman. This disaster wasn’t quite as bad as that time my shower head started talking to me, but surely it was close. And if I didn’t nip all that blooming chocolate in the bud now, I wouldn’t be able to bake a single doodlewhacker pie for the remainder of summer and most of autumn. What would I do without any doodlewhacker pie!?
Arriving in the kitchen, I emitted a frog-like yerk! as I surveyed the disaster. Blooming chocolate spilled from my cabinets, drawers, refrigerator, and even the defrigerator. Chocolate flowers and fruiting bodies sprouted from every box, bag, canister, and container; chocolate pollen wafted through the air—a mivulating cloud of brown dust signifying a dearth of doodlewhacker pie for months to come. Flowers made of dark chocolate and shaped like azaleas and hydrangeas peaked out of my utensil drawer. Milk chocolate daisies poked from behind my fridge’s door. Something resembling the elegant titan arum loomed over my sink. The cabinetry above my stove was worse than all else (a more mooblious writer may have scrivened, “worst”), infested with a tangled mass of pure cocoa kudzu.
“Don’t forget to breathe!” one of my brainmonkeys reminded me. I unyerked, gasped for breath, and started breathing again.
I continued surveying the damage as lithe porcupines slithered down my veins in a manic-depressive grandeur not seen since that dogastrophic flea-biting accident at the old dog-packaging plant back in ’87 had sent my stock portfolio tumbling out a fifth-floor window. But this situation was far worse than even that dogastrophe: No one could fix this mess—not even Justin Bieber, with his corn-cob pipe and a button nose, and prepubescent bowl-job of elephantine proportions!
“That’s it!” Suddenly a solution popped into my mind. I leapt with glee and crunked the ceiling. “A dog ass trophy! …Yappie, come here! Point your dogbuttocks at me again!” Yappie loped into the room, doggie as ever, and looked at me forlornly. Having been my faithful Carpathian Yapping Hound for all these years, clearly he knew his master was up to something inscrutably zany and no doubt beyond all human conceptions of sanity and normalcy.
“Now Yappie,” I began calmly, so as not to prematurely spook him into one of his notorious sulphurous episodes, which would surely nix any chances of this chocolate-blooming disaster giving rise to a dog ass trophy, “I need you to very slowly… very carefully… point your dogbuttocks directly at that cabinet over there.” I pointed above the stove. “And then… don’t… move… a muscle…”
Yappie slowly turned and pointed his dogbuttocks at the cabinet over the stove. For a moment I actually thought, once in his doggie little life, he actually understood me, but then I realized he had only turned because I had grasped him by the buttocks and shoved him into the proper position despite his wild attempts to paw and claw his way free.
“All right… now… fire!!!” I shouted and smacked my pitiful, senescent old hound on the haunches. Yappie reacted predictably: Moments later I was fleeing my palatial house, holding my nose and trying desperately not to breathe. A constant stream of flatulence and howling echoed from my kitchen. How this would accomplish anything I hadn’t a clue, but it sure was amusing!
“Don’t forget to breathe!” one of my brainmonkeys reminded me again, but I held fast until I reached the other side of Bouillabaisse Boulevard, safe from what had now become the most noxious house in a million millimile radius. I then stood there and watched the carnage ensue from a safe distance.
“Get off my lawn, you lunatic!” It was Mr. Van der Woobie, come to harry me again.
“Mr. Van der Woobie!” I replied cheerfully. I swore to myself that no amount of harrying by this crotchety old coot would get me angry. “Mind if I call you Harry?”
“My name’s not Harry!”
“Okay—mind if I call you Dweezil then?”
“Yes! Now g—”
“Well then—good afternoon to you, Dweezil!”
Dweezil snorted contemptuously, shaking his head. “…Get off my lawn!”
“Why are you constantly harrying me these past few weeks, you old codgery-doo?” I whined.
“Since Mr. Wilson up and left, it’s now my job to make sure you don’t burn the neighborhood down!” Dweezil lampshaded his sudden but now frequent appearance in my life.
“Hmm. Fair enough. Where’d ol’ Willie scurry off to anyway?”
“You gave him a nervous breakdown, you lunatic!”
I didn’t believe him. I had surmised that Willie had been eaten by squirrels. “I don’t believe you! I surmise that Willie has been eaten by squirrels!” I further surmised that those squirrels must have been part of OPERATION ZAGBUT, the U.S. Government’s attempt to round up every jaywalker in the country by using telekinesis. I’ve always been an excellent surmiser, my dear old Mamårp has told me.
“You ‘surmised’ that, eh?” Sarcasm dripped from Mr. Van der Woobie’s lips like the drooling of a senile and demented old man (which he was). “Do you know why you ‘surmised’ that, Phillip? Because you’re loony, that’s why. Completely, stark raving mad.”
I just sort of stood there like something had flown right over my head and I had completely missed it. Before Dweezil could do so, I waved my hand over my head and made whooshing sounds.
“Do you know what squirrels do eat, you nut?” he sneered. I shook my own head for a change. “Nuts, that’s what. Not people. Nuts! Now… get off my lawn!”
“Yerk! The squirrels are going to eat me!?”
“Yes!” Dweezil van der Woobie cackled like the mean, old man he was. “Now get off my lawn!”
I panicked and retreated at once. Judging by the waves of flatuousness still emanating from my palatial abode, returning home wasn’t an option, so instead I retreated down the street—once again flailing wildly and hooting like a madwoman. After several hours of aimless retreating, I ended up at the Drunken Donuts, the new donut shop / liquor store they built last month next to the eigenmongery on Strontium-90 Street. After imbibing several rather high-alcohol donuts, I blacked out and dreamed of plush puff-dragons emoozling from my lawn while fluffy eggcorns and mondegreens unendingly sang the virtues of Alyssa Milano’s two little feet and ten littler toes.
And even as I slept, awash in my own emesis, still my minions went forth and distributed thousands upon thousands—myriads upon myriads, milliards upon milliards!—of tiny little slips of paper announcing my balderdasherous scribblings, each typeset in lovely Comic Sans and containing my best self-portrait. And still each day they go forth—city by city, town by town!—from Spread Eagle, Wisconsin, to Squabbletown, California, and even all the way to Burnt Corn, Alabama, silently slipping those tiny little slips into every crevice they can find… and even some they can’t! In Goobertown, Arizona, my minions assault every outhouse, doghouse, and cathouse in a two-mile radius. In Contoocook, New Hampshire, any stores selling fish-bottling equipment or sandals for twelve-year-olds are their targets. In Loyalsockville, Pennsylvania, they hit the local sloop kitchens and ballad sars. Every Kmart, Walmart, Spend-O-Mart, Kwik-E-Mart, Dogsmart, Catsmart, Ferretsmart, and Petsmart shall be visited! Unendingly shall be sang the virtues of Alyssa Milano’s feet, the Spice Girl’s toes, spying oatmeal cookies, sex with geese, and the docile & perfunctory chatterings you read each week on this here weblog! None shall be spared! None! None!! Nooone!!! (Except those girls’ dainty little feet, of course.)
And thus today begins a thousand-year period of the same old crap that the last thousand-year period offered.