Being a little bit taller
Racked on April 16, 2023.
Today I was being exactly six foot three. This presented a multitude of manifold and multifarious problems, since everything in my palatial abode had been built for a man who was exactly six feet tall. My door jambs were now too low—I kept bumping my head until even my lumps had lumps. My ceiling fans were too low—but on the bright side, I won’t need a haircut for a while. And even my toilets were too low—more lumps and bumps on my heady noggin from banging it into those porcelain bowls.
Why was I being six foot three, you ask? Where did those extra 3″ come from, you ask? Was I wearing stilts? Or just absurdly thick platform shoes? (No, I’m not one of the Spice Girls, despite all those rumors to the contrary.) Did I get my head caught in a rice-picker like Spock? No, this is simply what happens when a Pnårp hangs from the rafters for a while. And no, I wasn’t trying to be a bat again. I learned what a terrible idea that was back in 2020.
With the snow gone and the mercury climbing into the hundreds of deci-degrees, the mud came. Mud season was at its height this week (until next week, when it would no doubt be higher). Those forty-two feet of snow had failed to freeze us to death in our beds, despite their best efforts. The ensuing snowmelt had failed to drown us in our bathtubs, despite the best efforts of those millions of gallons of angry, angry water. And now the mud was trying to swallow us alive in our back yards.
The flock of feral geese were up to their necks in it. (I still hadn’t gotten rid of them as I’d promised. Hopefully Becasue wouldn’t hang me from the rafters like a bat again.) Pointy little hats lay strewn across the muddy ground—a grim display of where each gnome had been sucked down to his doom. Hopefully none would ever reemerge—and if any did, my flamethrower was fueled up and ready to go!
This morning, Becasue took one step into the back yard and sunk up to her nipples. I sunk up to my balls. (As a six-foot-three man–squirrel, I have very tall balls.) This presented quite the predicament, but fortunately we’re both well-versed in pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps, so we were free in no time.
The one saving grace was… at least Bouillabaisse Boulevard was safe from a Napoléonic invasion. Even Hitler wouldn’t be able to bother us this month.
Meep—mippy, morp.
I meeped and I morped and I did a Pnårpy dance. And tomorrow, I’ll meep and I’ll morp… and I’ll do another Pnårpy dance. But today I will update my docile & perfunctory blog, because when I’m late, the vengeful Owl Gods come to pluck my eyes out and eat them. If I don’t finish this blog entry, clowns will eat me. If it’s too dark, grues will eat me. If it’s Monday by the time I publish it, I’ll have to eat last week’s calendar as penance. If it’s Tuesday, I’m going to go hide under the bed before I end up hanged from the rafters again. If it’s Wednesday, I’m going to dig a hole through my wall, flee to Lake Athabasca, and take up turtle farming like an angry old hermit. I’ll leave my palatial abode and my blogging duties to Becasue, the gnomes, my skeezle-wumpus, and my pet kerfrumpt. That’s what I’ll do.
That’s what I’ll do!
And then it was Sunday and I realized I had been putting off something else I needed to do, too. In my 2,780 weeks on doG’s green Earth (plus one ear), I have become quite the procrastinator! But some things just couldn’t wait anymore. Gibbering and flailing, flopping about, I ran upstairs, threw open the door, and went to work. Relief flooded over me. Cool, refreshing relief. I whizgiggled lightly.
But then my mood darkened. I frowned. I stared into the bowl with regret. Every time I go to pee, I always think about what else I could have been doing right then, instead of wasting my time whizzing into a bowl.
And every time I pee into a bowl, I always think about what else I could have used that pee for—instead of just whizzing into the punch bowl at my neighbor’s Easter party.
I shut the door and returned to procrastinating.