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

The Trooble Foundation

Irked on April 17, 2005.

A stupid defense is a stupid offense. A stupid can is a stupid jar. A moronic urn is a paltry way of saying hello to me. I am Pnårp, the great writer, the searcher for the Englebee Troobles, the victim of singing spiders, pincer monkeys, and screaming stars, and the desirer of Alyssa Milano’s feet. They haunt me. I hear another inaugural address on the radio in my lightbulb of a demented mind, this one by former President Piggy-Man.

He was a stupid president. No one liked him. I liked to drink from water fountains in Nebraska, and not get kicked in the head for saying I didn’t drink milk and polymer soup. I thought about skimping on my hourly payments to the Trooble Foundation on Saturday, but I couldn’t. Instead, I knocked myself out with a flower pot, saw Allah, and went to bed with dirt in my hair.