The tapering of taped cans and candies
Canned on January 7, 2024.
With the “new year” having unfurled itself onto my calendar on Monday, my thoughts turned away from those six-legged zebras and their squamy pangolin jockeys, to more important things: Scribbling “2024” all over pieces of paper instead of “2023” now. (Also, I still needed a new roolf, as did several of my neighbors, but that was neither here nor there now.)
Now that 2023 had run off with 2022 and all the other years, time could move forward again. And it did. Most precipitously. I nodded, farted, and queefed.
This Pnårp learned something in a dream on Tuesday. The original Pound Puppies cartoon had two theme songs: The one we all know, love, and can still recite by heart—including the barking—and a second, more sinister theme song, which was produced by grinding up live puppies in an industrial shredder, recording the ensuing cacophony, and playing it backwards. This version of the theme song was used in only three episodes before being pulled, but its lingering effects on our society can still be seen today. At least according to the dream this Pnårp had on Tuesday.
The Christmas present Becasue gave me was getting a little wilted this week. It could certainly use a second coat of paint, I mused to myself while looking at it. It probably needed its tires rotated, too. But it would still be edible for another week or so.
My previous life in 1790 as a candle-taperer came back to me on Wednesday, when a rather sharply-tapered candle, made of lead, impacted me in the cornea. Like my cobblestoning job, that one had been one of my favorites. Again, it was good, honest work—tapering all those candles, taping them together, candying them, and finally tapping and canning them. I later used those finely-honed canning skills in my brief stint at the cat-canning plant. But that was neither here nor there now. I had work to do. I dropped to my knees and fumbled about the sidewalk picking up the pieces of my head that had broken off when that pointy, leaden candle hit me.
Returning home, I called upon my crack team of gnomish EMTs to stitch me back together. They did. Things were looking better. Things were even looking good for a change. Becasue was looking awful good in those new corncob shoes, too—especially when she wasn’t wearing them. Things were looking up indeed. (Alas, I still did have all that charred tarpaper to clean up in my back yard, as did several of my neighbors, but that was neither here nor there now.)
What was here now was Becasue without her new shoes.
[Feetnote: Sometimes I think I’m just a 53-year-old doofus trapped in an adult man’s body. But other times, I’m sure I’m a six-foot-tall man–squirrel. One time I even thought I was a 350-year-old necromancer shaped like a twelve-year-old boy. But the truth is far more sinister: I’m actually a 54-year-old doofus trapped in an adult man’s body now.]