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My dear brother Grårp!

Crucified for March 13, 2005.

’Twas the day after Christmas, and I was writing “Pnårp!!” all over my nose and the rear-view mirror in my car. For Christmas, my neighbor Samuel Dreckers gave me a tin-plated (actually, I think it was ytterbium) Trooble-net and a sonic pair of Pokémon dolls. I bought him a new AK-47 to put on his roof like I had had a long time ago.

My brother, Gregory Richard Årp (we call him Grårp), gave me some shiny new earmuffs to keep the sound of the screaming stars out. After the six caret seven point three had uninterred itself, we all gathered around the abacus in his vestibule to sing Christmas Carols.

I gave my neighbor, Samuel Dreckers (poor Mr. Wilson!!), a pile of dog feces wrapped in cellophane, topped with some mouse dung and sugar-coated. I bought my brother a new planet to live on. He hates this one so much. I think he committed suicide this morning. He should be canonized, he was so damned mediocre. Yes, Grårp is quite dead. I found a piece of his thimble-drawers in my desk with the suicide memorandum in it.

Now that Christmas is over, I am heading for the Main Menu Bar in Alsace–Lorraine, then I will be traveling to Adrianople by way of Schleswig–Holstein, eventually stopping in Chechnya in search of the Englebee Trooble who conversed with my neighbor about Alyssa Milano’s feet.

Oh, my Lord!!! Y2K happened years ago!!! My brain will be eaten by powerful pincer monkeys and grasshoppers from Venus!!