A paracosm and a long Swede
Boggled on October 19, 2025.
I am dead.
“By the time you read this, I will be dead.” I’ve always wanted to say that. But I have been dead for weeks. So I guess I would never be able to. I snorted harrumphilly and went back to moldering away under the ground.
I wondered if the electric company was still sending bills to my now-empty palatial abode on Bouillabaisse Boulevard. And, were they still including those exciting newsletters with each bill? I always enjoyed reading those.
I wondered if any of my ancestors participated in the Revolt of the Long Swede. But some men are longer than others, I remembered. My putrescing brain conjured up images of Swedish meatballs and Swedish sausage. Now I was hungry. I thrust those intrusive thoughts away: More urgently, was Mr. Van Der Woobie still geezing around Bouillabaisse Boulevard? Was Mrs. Farnston still blue-hairing it up with her fellow Distemperance League crones? More likely, they were both moldier than I now was.
The comical paracosm of my Pnårpy life had come to an end. I had only one thing to say: I burped quietly.
I went back to moldering away some more. It was most peaceful.
The opposite of “ambidextrous” is “ambisinister,” I realized right then. And could a man who lacked dexterity be described as having “sinisterity”? The mind boggles. Mine however did not. Because…
I am dead. The dead do not wonder. The dead do not realize. But we do molder away.
I went back to moldering away.