Piffle and the eleventy-first
Flapped out on August 23, 2026.
A dreaded fifth Sunday approaches. But not today. Today I blog.
I nibbled on my bouillon cube pensively. (It was chicken.) What to blog about, what to blog about? A master of myrionics, the possibilities are endless. I picked up my pen and started scratching words into my monitor. Brow furrowed in concentration, a bloisterous scratching—a mellifluous scritching—filled the air. Off in the distance, a bus plunged.
Piffle will no longer add up to fifteen hundred words. Two-hundred and fifty the piffle shall be. Until I grow back all my fingers. Which might take a decade or eleven. My eleventy-first birthday is still far off (although it’s approaching at increasing speed). At this rate, it will be here before I turned fifty!
The undecorous aliphatic paternostering of bygone symmetries and adelphine hydromats sounded like a good topic for this week. Or an account of that time Becasue dressed up like a cow and kept slapping me with her udders. Which to blog about, which to blog about?
Or an account of when she dressed up like a cow and kept stomping me with her hooves.
Which to blog about, which to…?
Wait. Was I supposed to go to the Post Office today… or the Poo Office? My in-house poo office has been closed since that flapper mishap. Where to go, where to go?
I continued nibbling on my bullion. (It was gold.) It was going to be a long night. But it would be a short blog post!