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Gnomes? In my kettles?

Nonsensed at January 20, 2008.

[Dear Lord, I promise to make this entry make more sense. I know I failed You last time, Lord, but I really, really tried. I didn’t mean for the guardsquirrels to come flying out of my butt each time I tried to not type “butt” again. I didn’t mean to babble on endlessly about Bubble-Butt Lo’ Kweeisha’s bubble butt and the things she does with it on those videos. I didn’t mean to gum up my keyboard after watching big brown Lo’ Kweeisha riding the “Bang Bus” all night. I promise this entry will be 100% sense, and nothin’ butt. Er, but. But. But no butts. Bubble butts? But no. But amen.]

The kettle-gnome infestation in my house seems to have abated a bit this week, but I could just be imagining it. After all, gnomes of all kinds love to infest my palatial home all the time. Fortunately the Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes seem to have all died horribly—or perhaps just retired to northern California. But now, kettle-gnomes.

“Kettle-gnomes?” an inquisitive reader might ask. (Not you, dummy.)

“Yes, kettle-gnomes,” an intelligent writer might reply. (Not me, dummy.) “Kettle-gnomes are gnomes that live in your pots and kettles! They hide in the spouts, or sometimes under the handle.” But regardless of where they hide, and how often Alyssa Milano has a pedicure, my house was full of ’em, from top to bottom now.

Clearly drastic measures were called for.

After spending most of Thursday stocking up on dynamite and a few million rounds of 7.62×39½mm ammo for my roof-mounted AK-47 batteries, I returned home in order to take the necessary “drastic measures” that were clearly called for.

On Friday, my carefully thought-out plan all carefully thought out and laid out, my traps set, tarps laid down, and life-size cardboard cutouts of Alyssa Milano nude positioned strategically around my house, I implemented my plan.

Six tons of dynamite stacked in a perfect cube in the center of my kettle-gnome–infested home? Check.

Roof-mounted AK-47 batteries pointed at all the neighbors’ homes in order to ensure that none escape alive? Check.

Cheque? Check.

At this point, I checked out of reality completely, firing off all million rounds I had purchased directly into the pile of dynamite in my living room. Considering that my AK-47s are roof-mounted, and the roof itself stood in between my guns and the pile of dynamite, the roof is no longer standing at all. Considering that my target was a large pile of dynamite, neither is my house.

Nor is Mr. Wilson, but that’s another kettle-gnome of fish.

Nor are any of my other neighbors, but they’re just a bunch of nameless, faceless bastards, so I couldn’t care less.

I looked around, bumping and gurgling as I assessed the damage.

There was a lot.

(Big brown Loquisha got a lot of butt, too, but that was beside the point.)

I clambered down (that’s the kind of climbing a clam does) from the roof—what was left of it, which was actually nothing; apparently I had been standing on thin air while doing all that damage-assessing—and squatted down on the ground to count the thousands of tiny, tiny corpses that ought to have been strewn about my lawn and the crater where my gorilla-house once stood.

“Zero,” I mumbled, beginning the count. I looked to the left, right, a little ways in front of me, a ways behind me, and then directly at my behind. (I didn’t dare stare directly into Lo’ Kweeisha’s behind—stronger men than I have tried, and none have survived.) “And, …zero.”

Okay, not a single dead kettle-gnome. I looked around. Not a single live one, either. “Where’d you gnomey things all go?” I mused out loud.

Off in the distance, a hog snarked. A bee landed on my nose and stung me. Suddenly, the world was no longer my oyster, and I wanted to go home. Then, I saw her: My life-size cardboard cutout of Alyssa Milano. Then some other stuff happened that may have included me stomping to death sixteen kettle-gnomes, or may have just included me falling to the ground, frothing at the mouth, and hallucinating wildly about big dogs landing on my face again. Once again, Samuel Dreckers had gotten the best of me, it seemed. I knew what I had to do: I invited Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir over and told her to come barefoot and in her strongest armored lingerie—in case the gorillas became aware of her impending arrival despite my best efforts to tell them nothing. The gorillas naturally found out within minutes—I may have accidentally let it slip, as I am wont to do when conversing with them, or perhaps they were tapping my phone again. They were overjoyed, ooh-oohing and ahh-ahhing wildly as they slapped each other on their buttocks in anticipation. Alas, their trap was set perfectly.

Ravna arrived 39½ minutes later—barefoot, her toenails painted the color of an ocelot, and wearing titanium. The gorillas immediately set upon her with vigor—despite my best efforts to keep them locked in my spare bedrooms. Ooh ooh ooh, ahh, aaahh, aaaahhhh!!

I knew those sounds well.

At this point, my fantasies of Alyssa Milano slathering herself in mud and cavorting around a beach like a crazy monkey got the best of me, gorillas notwwithstanding, and I crawled back down to my pwee-pwee hole, made a bunch of weird hooting noises, pulled and pushed on things with both hands, and made a mess of things again. But more on that later… the kettle-gnomes are escaping!!

The kettle-gnomes are escaping!!