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 perfect symmetry of a letter

Excreted slightly before December 18, 2005.

I was sitting in my bedroom last night, contemplating the perfect symmetry of a Fraktur R while drinking a bottle of the new horsepiss-flavored Mountain Dew, when I was disturbed by a sound not unlike the wheedling, needling noises made by a legion of garden gnomes returning to my abode once again. My first reaction was to wet myself and hide under my bed, of course—and my second reaction was to soil myself, and my third reaction was to wet myself again, from which followed my fourth and final reaction: Reciting the King James Version of Genesis 2:20–24 in falsetto while bungee-jumping from my ceiling fan. My fifth reaction was to get my AK-47 down from the roof and shoot it at random until the noise stopped or I killed myself or something else.

Or a lot of something elses, which is a lot of fun a lot of times. Bang, bang, bang!

But I ran out of bullets and flanges before any of those things could happen, so then I went insane and ran naked into the street—not entirely naked of course: I wore a belt made out of old neckties and new sausages, and I had drawn the letter R all over my chest and buttocks throughout the day, which helped drive people from the streets and stables as I scampered onward, ever flailing and twirling. I spun around, all fluster-bustery, dug myself a trench, and buried myself until the noise stopped.

But the noise wouldn’t stop. So I dug deeper.

The noise finally stopped, a full 64½ rather large minutes later. I slithered blithely back into my house (careful to make sure none observed this trick), wet myself again, and made sure there were no garden gnomes anywhere. There weren’t—not even hiding under the wallpaper or in the electrical outlets, there weren’t. I was happy: Happier than I had ever been, happier than I had been hunting Englebee Troobles, happier than I am about Geri Halliwell’s feet, even happier than a pig in a poke! Or is that a pig in slop? A pig in a bucketful of feces? Fæces?? “Fex”? Is that word? Why does it say “Jebus” here?? Someone help, please… I’m not happy anymore…