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Caught in a wet noodling contest

Noodled on October 16, 2005.

By Tuesday morning, sure enough, the lawn gnomes had driven me insane: Completely, totally, indubitably, stark raving mad. I was madder than a hatter, madder than a haddock, madder than a wet hen under the noonday moon, madder than George Armstrong Custer caught in a wet noodling contest without a noodle. I spent all day Wednesday and seventy-four minutes of Thursday reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in Farsi, and then the rest of Thursday scarfing down a large soup bowl of lasagna. Lasagna that the garden gnomes made for me—made for me out of horsefeathers and testicle pie.

Great Custer’s ghost! The garden gnomes—and I’m still not enfliverously sure if they’re “garden gnomes” or “lawn gnomes” or perhaps even a variety of the elusive Westphalian Schmongeling Gnome, for they won’t tell me anything other than that my nose smells like cream pie—have driven me insane!

The lawn gnomes come, the lawn gnomes dance;

The lawn gnomes sing and the lawn gnomes prance!

The lawn gnomes come, the lawn gnomes dance!

The lawn gnomes sing and the lawn gnomes prance!!

The lawn gnomes come! The lawn gnomes dance!!

The lawn gnomes sing!!! And the lawn gnomes prance!!!!