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


Given to charity prior to May 22, 2005.


Why was there an eigenfactor on my doorstep? Did it know the floating pi? Was it in league with the singing spiders, whom I thought were dead and puréed, or the screaming stellar entities known as “stars,” or even Alyssa Milano’s pretty little feet?

It would not answer me. I became angered. It sat there, being an eigenfactor. I probed it about the stars, lambasted it about pi, interrogated it about those nefarious spiders, and begged it to tell me more about Ms. Milano’s feet. It just… sat, like an eigenfactor, doing differential arithmetic and calculating the seventh integral of a quartic equation known only to Einstein and a bird named Quetzalcoatl. It just wouldn’t answer me. I sat and watched it until Saturday night, when it flew off suddenly, streaming DLL files and two-way doors behind it like a mandibular penis-envy machine.

Finger, finger, finger, fing…

I printed seven ampersands and a pound sign (not an octothorpe!), pressed the relocator button on my milk bottle, and wondered once more why I could never find an Englebee Trooble. I sat down to write everything down like I usually do, but found my entire journal had been turned into a heap of burning bismuth.