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Interwoven threads of witless boobery

Spiked on February 20, 2022.

Dig your buttocks a new hole to fly things into—and out of! Put your brightly-colored power tools on a new broom mount! Alivant your norvulans frubblustly!

It made no sense. And it didn’t have to.

There were goats everywhere, and they were raising a ruckus loud enough to raise candy Cains.

3.0 ÷ 10 = 0.3, but 0.1 × 3 = 0.300 000 000 000 000 04. Floating point perfidy had bitten me again, bitten me like a coronavirus-laden bat. I blamed machine epsilon and tried to move on with my life, but ended up stuck in place for 3.0 days due to a nasal rupture and the horse dewormer I tried to use to glue my nose back together. Those horse worms sure pack a punch!

The three-eyed gnomes were replaced with goose-necked plomes this week. They goosed and they necked and they even plomed. They were goose-necked plomes.

My buttocks seems to have grown a multitude of new holes this week. It did this all on its own and I do not know why. Maybe it was fate. Or Fate.

The three-eyed gnomes were replaced with horsebuttock domes this week. They were doubled domes, round and tight, shaped like a horse’s arse. And they too had three eyes apiece.

I wonder what good fingernails are, but only because I don’t have any left to bite off. I considered biting off my own toenails but I couldn’t reach. So I bit a goat instead.

The three-eyed gnomes were replaced with curious British spellings of words like “arse” this week. To that end, I had some tea and strumpets for breakfast on Tuesday, and then the three-eyed gnomes returned.


It is indeed turtles all the way down. And turtles all the way up. And turtles on each side. The turtles look down at me from all the way up there, and throw slices of shredded pizza at my head.

Witless boobery reigned. I tried to rein in the witless boobery but failed miserably. Witless boobs rained down from the heavens. There are only two things in life I want: Fewer three-eyed gnomes staring balefully from atop my wainscoting. And witty boobs.

I considered biting off someone else’s toenails but even I am not that weird.

Mayor Julian Rhoodie called a press conference on Gruesday to discuss the three-eyed gnome infestation plaguing the town. I wasn’t sure what he would announce as a possible solution but I was confident that it would be sober and well-thought-out, like his vow last year to double the number of out-of-service buses downtown.

I just like to stare at ladies’ sandals.

The Blunder Bus was back in service on Bouillabaisse Boulevard again. This pleased me. I wouldn’t have to blunder around town on foot anymore!

I saved 100% on my car insurance by switching to a rickshaw. I didn’t even need an anthropomorphic gecko to pull it around for me—not since the Polynesian Pulling Gnomes arrived and started pulling everything around for me.

I took my Ryobi® 18V power drill down from its broom mount and painted it blaze orange instead of its natural chartreuse coloration. I then mounted it atop the flagpole in Gorgonzola Plaza.

The goatburping park on Shoehorner Street is now covered in sharp pointy things. The goats can’t belch. They can’t saunter around. They can’t even schtupp in public anymore. After a herd of the hapless ruminants wandered into my front yard, eructating forlornly, I bit one.

That billy goat tried to bite back but I was too quick for him. Baa-aa-aa! I withdrew to my drawing room on the 21st floor to imbibe more pepperoni wine and ogle photos of Chloë Moretz’s bare feet. Girt about the paps with glee, I laughed: Indeed mine were witty boobs now.

I’ve heard of a perforated colon. But a perforated gluteus is a new one!

I’ve never heard of perforated semicolons. But there is a perforated “bar” in my Big List o’ Unicody Symbols ’n’ Things. It looks like this: ¦

The pepperoni continues to flow unabated. And I continue to gobble it up, noshing merrily and greasily as I do. My dear old Mamårp always said I would die someday of a pepperoni attack. Shows what she knew! Woo-hoo-hey!!

I just like to stare cross-eyed at passers-by (and their sandals!) until they pass by farther away.

The three-eyed gnomes were replaced with double-nosed deuterostomes this week. I had only one nose but they had two. As is known, their mouths come before their anuses, but where do their double noses fit into this? Only the dog knows for sure.

A technocratic jeremiad oozed forth from my television, straight from the newsman’s lips into my obediently waiting eardrums. I wasn’t sure if it was about COVID-19, global warming, or the even more frightening global narming. It all blurs together nowadays and no one listens. But one thing is for sure: The Punchin’ Llama and Benjamin the Nettin’ Yahoo will soon face each other in the squared circle again—the grudge match of the 21st century.

I threw a stick of pepperoni at the telly and it turned off.

My new Polynesian Pulling Gnomes were on strike. My rickshaw sat idle. They were driving me to pull my hair out. But then—

The three-eyed gnomes were replaced with Ruritanian Carving Gnomes this week. They carved up my wainscoting and fed it to the skeezle-wumpus nesting in the kitchen cabinetry. I hid in an electrical outlet and dreamed of Chloë Moretz wearing her diaeresis atop her sandals. Cæsar Flickerman was interviewing an idle, amorphous blob on my television now. I threw another half-eaten pepperoni at the telly.

¦ I wonder what good fingernails were in years past.

¦ What purpose did they serve?

¦ Why did we have them?

¦ Why were mine green and yellow?

¦ Before the automobile why didn’t we have our own hooves to get around on?

¦ Why did we need horses back then?

¦ Why not alpacas or tapirs?

I rode a tapir once. It got mad and stabbed me with an aye-aye. So I limited myself to horses’ arses, dogs, Kimdangian emus, and Chloë’s feet.

I ate all the shredded pizza those turtles hurled… those hurling turtles… hurling from on high.

Cats, dogs, hamsters, and coronavirus-laden bats were now living together in unholy unions. And homeless bums were now to be referred to as “homeless butts.” Surely the end of civilization was nigh. I took solace in President Piggy-Man’s plan to build a border wall to keep the gnomes out. With budget cuts it would only be 1½ yards high. But for gnomes that was enough.

Building security was summoned; I was escorted out of the Butt Bros. CEO’s office. High on life (and drunk on pepperoni wine), I freed myself from the guardsquirrels’ squirrelly grasp and bounded down the twenty-one flights of stairs all on my own. Truth be told, it was more of a tumble. And I vowed to return next week with more photos of Chloë.

That’s when the Langoliers, having finished devouring yesterday ahead of schedule, gobbled up the day surrounding me. I survived but was left in timeless limbo—until the effects of all that pepperoni wine wore off.

The turtles really do go all the way down. And up, up, up.

I woke up (up, up) in a drainage ditch wearing ladies’ sandals on my noggin and nothing else—except hundreds of squirrel bites. I had one hecklegroober of a hangover. I stood up, stretched, left my hangover for dead in that mesothelial ditch, and flagged down a passing blunderbuss. It was the #9, to Bouillabaisse Boulevard.

But I was wrong. The blunderbuss driver didn’t know where Bouillabaisse Boulevard was. He inquired about the sandals atop my head. Oh, he wanted to play, did he? I chuckled at his naïveté. It was almost as bad as how I used to believe toilet paper was wallpaper for your toilet. (Imagine my shock when I discovered what it’s truly for. I was about to deliver the same shock to this poor blunderbuss driver.)

I just like to stare at ladies in sandals.

I do not like to stare at three-eyed gnomes—or any gnomes for that matter.

I do not like it when three-eyed gnomes stare balefully at me.

I just like to stare at ladies in sandals.

Shredded pizza regurgitated by teratogenic turtles may not sound appetizing, but it is. At least it’s not flobcumber salad or steamed cow amygdalas. I got booted off the blunderbuss and told I’d be sent a bill for the soiled seats. All twenty-one of them.

I just like to stare at ladies not even in sandals.

Mayor Rhoodie had a decent plan to deal with the growing homeless problem: Outfit all the sidewalks and park benches with densely-packed “homeless spikes” so the bums can’t sleep on them. This plan indeed seemed to be effective. But it also explained my own gluteal perforations this week.