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Fort Flabberwocky was a myth!

Auld acquaintances forgotten on December 31, 2006.

Apparently, rumors of my house being eaten by an aroused Tandy were a bit exaggerated: It seems that, in all truthfulness, yours truly had shot himself out of his chimney after once again going on a particularly violent farting spree—remember the HMS Gormless Bastard?—and, after landing amongst a pile of shingles, old cardboard boxes, tires, and random electronic equipment (a sign called the place a “town dump”), I simply imagined the rest. No salacious computer eating my house. No makeshift cardboard house dubbed Fort Flabberwocky. No cockroaches chewing off my skin. No singing spiders coming to mock my misfortune. No little, sandal-footed Loquisha coming to visit me for Christmas—she went to my real house on Bouillabaisse Boulevard and couldn’t find me. And when Samuel Dreckers told her he’d last seen me erupting from my chimney and traveling along a graceful parabolic arc toward the north end of town, she laughed and didn’t believe it!

She didn’t believe it! First I ate her candy bar myself, spitefully—then I dumped that skank like the three-hundred-dollar whore that she was when I had first met her.

I returned to my house this morning, and quickly went about celebrating the Last Day of the Year™ by stripping down to my socks, pasting sheets of tinfoil all over myself, and running around my lawn in circles, going “Pwee, pwee, pweeweewee!” and waving my arms like a gorilla in heat. (You’ll be pleased to know that the gorillas—the real ones—are still safe in my spare bedrooms.) I then proceeded to find the nearest gnome hole, whereupon I filled it full of gasoline, lit a match, and ran like bloody soddin’ hell. Those gnomes are not coming back to Pnårp’s house ever again!

After calling my dear sister Plårp (to compliment her on her lovely feet!) by dialing 1-800-COLLECT and then shouting at the operator to connect me, lest I beat the phone with a wet noodle covered in schmaltz, I got ready for the real party tomorrow—the one with all the goats!

Happy new year, boys and girls!

Happy new year, Larry Appleton, you lipless bastard!

Happy new year, Balki Bartokomous!!

[Feetnote: Apparently I didn’t jump to my death out of a window either. Neither my real home nor Fort Flabberwocky has a fortieth floor. There are an awful lot of gorillas, however.]