Plårp goes home
Sent home on August 5, 2007.
My dearest silken-footed sister, Plårp, went home on Monday. I, petrified at the thought of leaving the safe haven of my pitch-black closet (grues! grues! hiding everywhere!), didn’t quite figure this out until Friday, however.
Monday afternoon, when I started clamoring for Plårp to bring me my daily ham-and-spam sandwich, I received no answer. An hour of shouting and clamoring resulted in no sandwich, so I continued hooting and chirping for another two hours until I was hoarse as a horse off course. That plan having failed in its entirety, I sang the “Horst Wessel Song” by Horst Wessel for the next six hours, at the top of my lungs.
My ham-and-spam sandwich still failing to materialize in the hands of my nimble-toed sister, I started hurling myself against the door and walls of the closet in aggravation.
I did this for about four days. Slam, slam, slam!
On Friday, I accidentally knocked the closet door off its hinges. I probably could have just used the doorknob, but it was more fun and dramatic this way. Squeezing my pupils shut tighter than a sheep’s sphincter, the first sight to splash violently against my corneas was a view of my computer, sitting quietly on the desk about six feet from my closet. It was on.
I shrieked in horror and retreated to the farthest reaches of the closet, curling into a fetal position and jamming my thumb in my mouth. This was, unfortunately, the same end of the closet I had been employing as a makeshift commode, so lying here wasn’t the least bit pleasant. But it was better than being eaten alive by my computer!
After wallowing there for a little over six hours, I finally found enough courage (it was hiding under the mound of feces!) to tiptoe carefully out of the closet, crawl on my belly across the floor toward the computer, and try to determine once and for all if it was truly the merciless engine of death which I had come to believe it was.
It took until 7:89 p.m. on Saturday for me to slither nervously (not so blithe now, I am not) toward the computer, get myself up into a kneeling position, and fearfully press any key to disengage my Alyssa Milano screensaver. During this uneventful trip across the floor, I realized my dearest sister Plårp must’ve abandoned me, and taken her scrumptious feet with her.
I squealed in horror as the blood-red desktop reappeared on the screen. It was all true! It was going to kill me! I leapt to my feet, and before the dastardly machine had a chance to do its dastardly deeds to yours truly, I had smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces with its own mouse and keyboard. I then ran screaming from my house, setting fire to the structure as I flew out the door, just to make sure the computer was good and dead.
[Feetnote: With my evil computer smashed and my house a smoking pile of ruins, I’ll be spending the next several weeks living in the stumblebum stables on Wiggensworth Street. An old stumblebum named Willie offered to let me borrow his computer (he called it an apple, but it didn’t look like a piece of fruit to me—more like another hideous engine of death) so I could type this up and share it with all my dear readers.]