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Snow crabs and snow leopards

Piled up upon December 3, 2023.

My doctor told me there was a significant difference between “anal piles” and “a pile of anuses,” but I still wasn’t seeing it. My testicles were also being very testy this week, which added no end to my frustrations.

On the package of frozen peas it said, “Taste the peaness.” And I did. It was good. Quite peaful.

The strumatous whizzy-cones continued to ululate—nay, continued to undulate and mivulate—but I heard from a trustworthy source that soon the frozen peas would devour the world. Then everyone would taste the peaness.

That was when I saw it: A large—a truly massive—pile of anuses on the corner of Pinnfarben Street and Bandersnatch Way. I wasn’t sure how many squirrels they had to skin and desphincter to make that heap, but one thing was for sure: Not only did I just write two sentences in a row with colons, but my own anal piles back home couldn’t beat this heap o’ meat if they tried. (And: They did.)

It started to snow crabs. Then it started to snow leopards. I was truly shocked: But it wasn’t as shocking as when it started to rain cats and dogs back in 1987 when the animal shelter suffered that gas leak, but it sure was close.

One of the crabs tried to pinch my nose off, but I stopped worrying about that when one of the leopards mauled my face off instead.

Nineteen more words and Becasue will stop threatening me with that jar of nits.

This mewondering shriftery continued contumeliously, but the grumnutterous alabaster would not waver. Thusly, it overleeched Sefernday, albeit a few weeks late (and alwasit no one curiated anyknob), and thus seeping—quietly creeping, through the ceiling grate—whence whereupon whither we who all heard it through the gratefine winced. The gravepine, that veritable tree of death—my scrofulous town’s answer to the Tree of Life—was doing fine, however. It wasn’t even dead anymore.

My daughter always thought I was crazy but I knew she’s just after the pots of gnome gold I have buried in the back yard. Or she wanted my wontons. Those are always a popular treat.

“Trick or treat! Smell my feet! Give me something good to eat!”

But it was over a month too late for that—and my nose was on vacation so I couldn’t smell much of anything right now.

Then one of those leopards tried to eat me again. But, being a snow leopard, the brumal feline melted before he could chomp down on my face. But the snow crabs were faster: They were able to pinch my face off ere I could flee. I tried to escape into the gratefine but couldn’t fit between the bars. (They were far too fine.)

I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your President. You’re just going to have to find someone else to preside over your Llama Appreciation Society meetings.