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Morning again?

Mourned on February 11, 2024.

Morning? Again? But we did that yesterday.

I sometimes think about the man who discovered he could melt a horse and use it to stick stuff to other stuff. Horses are useful for many things, but how did this curious man think of turning horses into glue? I’ve tried turning a cat’s guts into a violin and that doesn’t work. The cat usually tries to claw my eyes out. I really shouldn’t try inventing things.

Dords and fnords tried to rile me up on Tuesday. When they failed, they sent their drudes to do it. But I confused those malevolent beasties with Druids (and dudes) and laughed them off. The Fnords next door (next dord?) all died in a fire in 2023. Yet… I can still see the fnords. How I can see them!

Morning? Again? But we did that on Monday.

At least “morning” is nothing like that furfural foofaraw in 1821. Fie! Fah! Furfuryl alcohol makes a good chemical feedstock but I wouldn’t feed it to myself. I did once—and turned into a furry. Yiff!

I am sometimes agape with agape, which stands in contrast to my philautia for philately. None know what the hecklegroober this means. But perhaps it’s caused by the everlasting bite of the Garpuntle from South Petrawlis? Or the harmless Pukmarin from Binpuka Minor? Or Pak’ma’ra porn? One quails at the thought. The quails duck—the ducks chicken out. I don’t know what the chicken does. Probably scratches about on the ground looking for bugs to eat. Mmm, bugs to eat.

The multitude of Gulphs in Conshohocken never ceases to amaze me. They’re not gulfs… they’re not even Guelphs! They’re Gulphs! This polyhoemy isn’t as eximonious as the Fallopian Philopater who flopped phallaciously to Loyalsockville, nor is it as shocking as when Gateway *13/425 opens up and swallows me whole—but it is damn close. Damn close indeed.

Becasue busied herself Wednesday by reorganizing her closet full of nothing but green dresses.

“Dressin’ like corn makes it easier to hide in the cornfields,” my big little blonde huzzey-muffet explained.

“Why did you need to hide in the cornfields?” I asked.

No answer. After a pause, she went back to organizing her closet.

My brain was morphologically complete by Friday—no more half-brained Pnårp anymore! The pangolin in my dishwasher had learned a new trick, he did: He pulled half my brain out through my nostrils! But a new half grew in place of it. I got better. Now I’m the best Pnårp that the world has to offer!

Conshohocken! Conshohocken, Conshohocken, Conshohocken! I need to cluck like Mike the Headless Chicken but I can’t if I’m headless too!

So instead, I craunched a marmoset as it began raining in jars. I’ve a mind to vomit yet the walls have hearsay. I know well who I have to make, and moreover, I have gained ten lewis in the process. English is indeed as she is spoke.

Morning? Again? But we did that on Monday.