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Crap! Carp! Scrap! Scarp!

Sworn on May 21, 2023.

“Crap!” I swore mightily. Monday slunk onto my calendar with more moribunditude and terwilligerism than even I could handle. It wasn’t as bad as hypoglycemia and digititis and it sure beat mesothelioma in a drainage ditch, but that made it no less a formidable foe. Monday eyed me balefully, and I eyed it right back. I even had all of my eyebrows again. I made my most threatening faces at it, but it would not back down. I lunged. The battle was joined. I grappled with Monday all day until Tuesday arrived—punctual as always, right at midnight.

“Carp!!” I swore vigorously. Wednesday slithered up and revealed that I was all out of fish. My freezer was empty. The Great Rotten Fishpile was gone. And Becasue was visiting her friend Borbra in the nut house on Macadamia Street. So, even my tuna surprise was unavailable.

“Scrap!” I swore powerfully. I found my Snoodabaker ablaze on Thursday. It was quickly reduced to a smoking pile of steel and melted aluminum. Even the beige, nineties-era Macintosh that served as its infotainment system was a total loss. Those pyromaniacal squirrels were at it again. Burning down the airship Lolo Ferrari wasn’t enough for them. They needed to burn down more, more, more. They needed to burn it all down. Soon they will come for you! I dug my faithful Trabi out of the back of the garage.

“Scarp!!” I swore thunderously as my Trabi rolled off a cliff on Friday. I walked home.