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Never put a fish in your car

Wrapped on May 12, 2024.

Ol’ Morty VI had never gotten around to going to his own daddy’s funeral. And now he wouldn’t have to—as he himself was now equally as deceased. Last week’s shock at Mortimer V.I. Harshbarger VI’s sudden death under the butt-end of a donkey had already worn off. Some people blamed the latest outrage overshadowing it and driving it from people’s minds. But I, being smarter than all these other rubes (although more doofus-shaped!), blamed it on one simple fact: No one liked Morty and even fewer cared. The haberdashery was closed. It was slated to be replaced with a new fish-wrapping plant.

And by doG, if there’s one thing the world needs more of, it’s fish-wrapping plants. Too long have meat-packing plants and vegetable-shoving factories stolen the spotlight. Now the biggest fish-wrapping plant was coming to my town. Rumor is it’ll have the capacity to wrap enough fish to cover the state of Rhode Island with (well-wrapped) fish a foot deep—every day!

And there’s one thing the world needs less of. It’s sentences ending with prepositions.

“Listen to me: Never put a fish in your car. Unless you pack it—tight. Remember that. It’ll help you in life.”

This was the most sage advice I ever received from a movie—even better than those fish boots. And so, I carefully unwrapped my newest fish. It was a halibut. It eyed me forlornly. I grinsped. I picked up yesterday’s copy of the Bouillabaisse Boulevard Bulletin and carefully wrapped it back up again. Oh, how the Bulletin was such a versatile paper. If only I had some birdcages to line with it, too!

And if there was ever a fish mafia, Joe Pesci would simply have be in the movie about them.

I unwrapped another fresh fish. It was a cod. It was giving me the side-eye too. I grinsped and wrapped it back up again. Becasue was eyeing me in the same suspicious way. Then I unwrapped my big little redheaded huzzey-muffet and we went upstairs for some fish pie.

Those fish boots still pop into my mind from time to time (pop!). But I dealt with that fishbootmonger and he also went pop! when I did! So there’s that! (And there’s more, but I forget now.) At least I didn’t forget about Hitler again. But I do sometimes wonder: If Hitler were an ant, would he be Antler?

Yuppies surfing, playing with their dreidels, and eating potassium-laden chives. That’s what it’s all about. And lead-infused onions and magnesium-soaked bok choy. (That’s a kind of cabbage.) That’s what makes the water in your toilet green instead of yellow—albeit while letting it mellow. If you keep a fish in your toilet, you can’t ever flush it again. But if it’s a well-wrapped fish, you can still eat it sometime later. You can also put fish on pizza, use fish as a bagel topping (or use fish food), and even put fish in Hot Pockets. But never put a fish in your car. Remember that. It’ll help you in life.

Trout-flavored Hot Pockets are really starting to sound good right about now. Or even sliced salmon sausage on a pizza. My IT Morlocks tell me I should use “&fish;” more often in this blog, but ampersands fill me with a nameless dread.

A huzzabarruffit suddenly flew over my house! (That is, a harooloo with wings.) It wasn’t howling. It wasn’t a fish. It wasn’t trying to gnaw on my bones. But it was there. And it was something. I tried looking down my nose at the thing, but my nose is too big and got in the way. Also, the huzzabarruffit was flying over my house… so I should have looked up, not down. I tried looking up my nose at the thing, but my nose hairs got in the way.

The huzzabarruffit crashed into a nearby mountain and burst into flames (even though my town doesn’t have any mountains). A fleet of zebra sausages descended on it, noses whiffling, sirens blaring, and put the fire out. I remain convinced that at the moment of impact, a clutch of space aliens, all of whom looked like Rory Calhoun, emerged from the creature and ascended into the heavens. People call me crazy. But I know goose spit can’t melt steel beams. I’ve become quite the twaddlemonger in my old age, I dare say! (However, I’m not a day over twelve.)

Umph… plurgh… splat! At this rate, I will never die hooting.