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.