Subscribe to all of my blatherings right in your wob brewser!Subscribe to my latest blatherings right in your wob brewser! Pnårp in print! Made from 35% recycled toilet paper! Send Pnårp your garrulous praise… or excretory condemnation! The less you tweet? The more you toot! Dreaming widely about my page! Tweet! Tweet! Twat! Livin’ it up… on a living journal! A whole book full of my faces? A whole book full of my faces?
You’re my favorite visitor!

Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page

An antelope with a pair of cantaloupes

Hight on April 7, 2024.

Nurdlebutt had gotten into my sack of plastic nurdles again, eaten most of them, and after administration of much cat laxative, proven how aptly yclept she had been. The litter box was a total loss, but at least it was a colorful one.

If the past participle of “dive” is “dove,” why is the participle for “delve” not “dolve”? Or the one for “five” not “fove”? “Well, ‘five’ isn’t even a verb,” you might say. And I would reply: “Stop! Or all these pointy quotation marks are going to stab us to death!”

These were the “thoughts” that played across my synapses as I finished cleaning the rug shampooer and stuffed it back in the closet. Those, and: It takes an awful lot of shampoo” to clean up all that real poo. It does indeed.

The demented Democrats and backwards Яepublicans continued their stercotaureous inflabblations. I listened to none of their inescuchable nonsense. I refused to eat the bugs because the weather didn’t even need changing. I didn’t care how many twelve-year-olds the latest washed-up celebrity tater-totted. Not even all the dead penguins raining down on my roolf would convince me to change my pigheadededness. I had my mind made up: I would vote for the ficus tree this year. Again.

Then a dead penguin crashed through my roolf, hit me in my pig head, and I died oinking (not hooting!).

Tuesday was the best day: I did not pinch one off in the middle! This rare victory made me absolutely overjoyous all day—until I remembered it was time to make the ice cubes again. I hate making the ice cubes. When I finish off a tray (always two cubes at a time), it just sits there on my countertop, empty and neglected, until someone fills it for me. Or it fills itself. Or I run out of ice cubes in the other tray and have to be icecubeless until I refill both trays and wait hours for them to freeze. I hate making the ice cubes.

Wednesday followed Tuesday, and then Thursday humped Wednesday until it got out of the way. Gongsday came hot on Thursday’s heels and Friday was nowhere to be seen. I peered into my rug shampooer—perhaps I had shampooed that rug a bit too good—but no. Not a single Friday was stuck in there.

Saturday, seeing its chance at fame and glory, pounced then. An inhooligable aardsquirrel wriggled under my front door, stood before me, and—girt about the paps with chittering, sadistic glee—informed me that that moose had wriggled back into my attic despite my attempts to rid myself of it. The aardsquirrel then wriggled back out without even opening the door. I gave chase, trying to wriggle after it. But I still didn’t fit under the door. And opening the door was out of the question for reasons I can’t purph into words. (These are words! [No, really!]) The desiccated burrito deeply ensconced under my refrigerator since the 1990s wriggled out to remind me it was time to hose down the attic-dwelling moose again. I sighed and climbed the stairs.

On the screen before me was a bubal hartebeest—an antelope with a pair of cantaloupes. It made me want my own pair of cantaloupes. I prayed to the dread Owl Gods, but only a coconut fell on my head.

I purphed some more, murped softly, and cranched an ocelot. Better than craunching another marmoset, I thought grimly. I mulled it over. Was this the nippapip I had been looking for? Or was it just a pile of humple? Only time would tell—but not the timepiece that erstly hung from my ceiling, for that clocky little guy had frozen to death in Athabasca on Tuesday and a half.

Thoughts of marmosets overwhelmed me—even worse than those lawn-ocelots had back in ’11. Marmosets came pouring out of my ears, out of my nose, even out of my eyes, my eyelets, and my aglets. I swung my Cantabrigian cantaloupes at them, but it was all for naught: I collapsed into a barrow of sherds. Herding goats I would never do again.

I still wasn’t sure how to truss all these disparate thoughts together into a coherent aggrumulation, but I would try. Or die hooting. I didn’t die hooting last week, so maybe things were looking up. Then I looked up and reminded myself my ceiling clock was gone. Bummer.

Then this morning, I pinched one off in the middle.