Crap! Crabapple! Crapapple!
Cursed on May 28, 2023.
“Shazbot!” I cursed on Sunday evening when it became apparent to all but the stupidest individuals that my latest blog entry would not be published on time.
“Shitbutt!” I cursed on Monday when I ran out of toilet paper. 35% of this docile & perfunctory blog is printed on recycled toilet paper. And now the other 65% had run off with my perfidious oatmeal cookies and terrycloth sputter-nutters. I didn’t know what to make of this turn of events. Had my paper towels and pickle jars abandoned me, too? Had even my Trabant’s starter solenoid been stolen? What next? Not even my big little redheaded huzzey-muffet could make head or tails of this conundrum—nor my gruntling, exasperated tale of it. I posed the question to the scorpion population living in the sidewalk but even they were at a loss. One then stung me on the nose.
“Crap!” I cursed on Tuesday when the astounding display of moribunditude and terwilligerism that defined yesterweek reemerged and attempted to define this week, too. It was awful. It was a mess. It was an ugglatine fiasco of elephantine proportions, more immense than a football field full of whales each the size of Rhode Island, studded with every bloated failure one could imagine, all rolled up in a bundle of devastating mistakes, dripping with abject catastrophe, and roped together with every woeful mishap and doleful blunder anyone had ever imagined since May 28, 1789 (which was a Thursday). And the icing on this cake o’ calamity? I realized my blog had not been published on time. Back to exasperated gruntling and frustrated doodlewhacking I went. Becasue threatened to check me into the nut house alongside Borbra. And the scorpions stung me on the nose again.
“Crabapple!” I cursed on Wednesday when I took a stroll down to the costermongery on Alpha Ralpha Boulevard and learned they were all out of apples. I tried making a pie out of some curious little apples I found on a tree growing in the sidewalk.
“Crapapple!!” I cursed on Thursday when I dumped my sour, ungrulious pie in the toilet and flushed mightily.
“Crabcakes!” I cursed on Friday when I took a stroll down to the fishmongery on Wiggensworth Street and learned they were all out of crabs. I tried making cakes out of some curious little crabs I found near that tree.
“Crapcakes!” I cursed on Saturday when I dumped those cakes in the toilet. However crablike in appearance they were, those scorpions were far from edible. They would never sting me on the nose again.
“Crabapplecakes!” I cursed on Sunday when everything came full circle and joined together in a horror show that would leave me paralyzed from the toenails down. And my blog would be late again. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would figure this out once they saw what I had done to my poor toilet by flushing all those pies and cakes down.
I would learn of this on Wednesday.