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A week of weekdays and their horrors

Manacled on October 8, 2023.

This was a week of constancy, a week of contrasts—nay, a week of constant contrasts. Joy and horror visited me daily, adding to the disorganized word salad that is my life. A wedding ring, a casket, and an errant prepuce only added to the chaos.

On Monday, I mooned someone. I also mooed a lot, which I typically save for other days of the week. Becasue mooed a lot, too, but she always does that on Mondays—and other days of the week. And then I mooned someone again. This mooning earned me a swift kick in the buttocks, delivered to me by the recipient of my hearty mooning. But this didn’t cow me in the least: I mooned the man once more, while simultaneously mooing as heartily. I then went on to moon many, many more people throughout the day. Becasue continued mooing at them and me. I even called up my friendly local haberdasher again and mooned him over the phone. He did not moo back.

Then that man dressed as Mike the Headless Chicken mooned me through an open window. I leapt out the window and tried to chase him down, but he and his turbo chicken suit were still too fast for me. Around the same corner he went; around that same corner he disappeared. I threw my asshat on the ground and stomped it like a cartoon character. Then I mooned some more people, the Sun mooned me as it set, and I slunk back indoors. The Moon did not rise.

Monday and its lunatic horrors were over.

On Tuesday, I did everything twice. I awoke twice, showered twice, breakfasted twice, mooned two people twice even though it wasn’t Monday anymore, schtupped my big little blonde huzzey-muffet twice, blunched twice, dined twice, supped twice, clogged my toilet twice, and lastly went to bed twice. I was even kicked in the face—again twice!—by two people: A barefoot Uma Thurman and an equally barefoot Chloë Moretz. But unlike that swift and well-shod kick I received yesterday, I was okay with this.

Then the Twiceler returned from his long stay on the planet Ogo and told me I would die of squassation by sasquatch if I wasn’t more careful. After a bit of absquatulation, I thanked him for his advice, two times over, and went to bed twice. The Sun set, then set again. Two bitcoin scams broke out right in my living room, then two wars.

Tuesday and its martial horrors were over.

On Wednesday, a wedding. I had blorpled down to Parsimony Plaza to smell the horseflowers when I learned that a wedding was taking place there. It was a private event but that didn’t stop me. Nothing stops me—not a wedding, not a funeral, not even that pack of feral pit bulls on Skullduggery Lane could stop me from smelling the horseflowers. It turned out I knew the couple. Or at least half the couple: Beatrice I.T. Carparker-Harshbarger’s daughter, Willamina, was the bride. She liked me as much as her mother liked me. So, I made a couple pointed comments about her horsefaced husband-to-be and how her initials are further proof of the theory of nominative determinism—just like her mother’s are. With that, I flew out of there like a bat out of Hell but not before the groom kicked me in the face with his hind legs.

Then I got torn to shreds by those feral pit bulls. The Sun set, but I was in sixteen bloody pieces in an alley off Skulduggery Lane, so I missed it.

Wednesday and its mercurial horrors were over.

On Thursday, turds. Lots of turds. I had been saving up all week and now it was time to go. Alas, going proved mildly challenging, since my toilet was in the shop, but I was able to accomplish the stercoreous task nonetheless. I was out of buckets, out of empty holes in the ground, and even out of plastic bags into which to make an excremental deposit. But then Nurdlebutt the Cat showed me the way and the task was completed. I called my plumber friend to ask him if he had dysplumbiated my toilet and when he could reinstall the ol’ girl in my ninth-floor half-bathroom. He spun a long and confusing yarn, making excuse upon excuse as to why the work was unfinished, undone, uncompleted, unresolved, and even unstarted. I accused him of being full of shit, to which he retorted that I, the toiletless one, was more likely full of shit!

Then: “Shows what you know!” I chootled petulantly into the phone and told him to go check his truck bed. He hung up in a huff. I hung up huffing and puffing triumphantly. I thanked Nurdlebutt for her advice and fed her a can of fish heads and horse gonads. The Sun was setting, so I went up onto my roolf to watch it. Then I tripped in a pile of elephant turds and fell smack dab in the middle of a pack of feral pit bulls again. They were laughing.

Thursday and its jovial horrors were over.

On Friday, I ate six buckets of fried chicken, six cartons of French fries, six cans of refried beans, and six dollops of deep-fried ice cream. Then I lay in wait for that man in the Mike the Headless Chicken costume to wander by again, clucking wanly. I would club him over the head and fry him, too. Then I would drink all the deep fryer oil. But the man never appeared. I spent the afternoon frying more food, much of it twice—even though Tuesday was over—and ate every last bit of it. The one thing I didn’t fry on Friday was my brains: Those were already well-fried from that powder-snorting accident back in 1987. I had no need to fry them any crispier.

Then I fried some eggs on my roolf since the Sun refused to set this day. I have long given up trying to understand the fearsome and unpredictable laws of physics and instead just chalk it all up to global warming. A fried duck suddenly fell from the sky, likely fried in mid-flight, and knocked me off my roolf. I landed in another pack of feral pit bulls. F———!

Friday and its frigging horrors were over.

On Saturday, it was a sadder day. I schronked—rather than blorpling, I schronked this time—down to Parsimony Plaza to smell the horseflowers. Again it was closed to the public, but that didn’t stop me this time, either. Nothing stops me any day of the week. There was some kind of funeral or something taking place there. “I think I’ve done this before,” I intoned under my breath, recalling my younger, funeral-crashing ways. But this time the man in the casket—if he really was a man, not a six-foot-tall man–squirrel!—did not die in a horsebuttock riding accident. And much to my elation, he did not appear to be a Harshbarger, a Carparker, or even remotely related to that inimitable family of haberdashers and car parkers. But I still got kicked in the face by someone’s hind legs.

Then I returned home, horseshoe imprints and all. The Sun set so unexpectedly that I stumbled in the darkness, fell, and sprained my nose. Sadly, I did not fall into a pack of feral pit bulls this time. Instead, that clawed, skinless, eye-ridden demoness invaded my nightmares and flayed me alive. There were no sasquatch around to make things even worse, though. Things can always be worse. There could’ve been gnomes.

Saturday and its saturnine horrors were over.

On Sunday, the Sun never rose nor set, and I crashed Mortimer Harshbarger’s son’s bar mitzvah. I had already ruined a wedding and a funeral this week—so why not? All those Harshbargers and Carparkers were positively overjoyed to see me come blorple-schronking down to Parsimony Plaza to smell the horseflowers again. Beatrice tried to beat me with a blunt object. Willamina tried something sharp and pointy. The rabbi didn’t join in the fun but the mohel sure did. Ol’ Morty had always been such a procrastinator, which explained why there was a mohel there.

Then Vivian V.I. Alzheimer-Nickerbocker tossed a shoe at me. Mortimer tossed a boot. Then everyone tossed footwear at me. I flew out of there like a bat out of hellish northern California. Then I rounded a corner, and just as I was about to catch up with the man in the Mike the Headless Chicken costume, the Sun suddenly rose—and set—and that sasquatch got me.

Sunday and its sundry horrors were over.

The week ended. It had been a long, strange week, but there was one thing I learned that made it all worth it: If I didn’t fill it with turds every time I used it, my toilet wouldn’t clog every time I flushed it. This lesson irritated me, so I stopped writing here.