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

Mesothelioma in a drainage ditch

Stir-fried for October 22, 2006.

Dingleberry, dingleberry, dingleberry, hamster!

That’s how that old song goes;

Dingleberry, dingleberry, dingleberry, hamster!

And it’s why I blow my nose!

Dingleberry, dingleberry, dingleberry, hamster!

All the hamsters squeal and trill;

Dingleberry, dingleberry, dingleberry, hamster!

It’s all because of Jack Off Jill!

I sang this in the shower on Thursday—the only place the gnomes’ Orwellian panopticon can’t reach. I sang it at the top of my lungs, while the plush puff-dragons infesting my lawn did little rain dances to the screeching cacophony those hot Goth chicks call music. The dragon told me about mesothelioma (that’s bad), a batch of singing spiders I had accidentally left deep-frying in a jam jar (that’s good), and how Haldûrburðgar’s goons had knocked down Samuel Dreckers’ door in the middle of the night and dragged him away, never to be seen again (that’s bad—I think?), but I didn’t listen—I was too busy scratching out a living in a drainage ditch and whistling about Alyssa Milano’s soft, young feet.

Alyssa Milano’s soft, young feet… mmmmmmhhhh…

Then the whole world exploded in a Technicolor nightmare of pyrotechnics and technetium nettles. I blame Haldûrburðgar.