The fleeting nuances of Dingleberry–Hampsterism
Guzzled on May 9, 2010.
Earlier this week, while noshing on a large mass of cheese—government cheese, I might add—I suddenly became aware that not since Aodh Mór Ó Néill defeated Robert Devereux at Nonsuch Palace in 1087, had I seen a mass of cheese so obviously in need of being admitted to the Bar. Government cheese—especially large masses of it—are how you end up with a shit mishmash of rubbish, or so I’ve been told.
The cheese having been sufficiently noshed upon and put back in the defrigerator, I donned my revolving underwear and spent a few hours pondering the fleeting nuances of Dingleberry–Hampsterism. Having taken note of the unforgiving, tractionless gnomes landing upon the face of ever-stiffening dogs skulking about under the setting noonday Sun, and having observed Yappie sitting quietly in the corner smirking like the John Updike that just swallowed a canary, I decided to cut this sentence short before all semantic meaning was buried under complex grammatical dinglebongities and obscure verb tenses.
The day ended. Another began.
My blunch the next day was comprised of roast Schmarnocks flowers, a malodorous flobcumber stew, and a fine dessert of delicate crudberry pie (with sprinkles). Have you ever eaten a flobcumber? They’re quite tasty—when they’re not staring you down reproachfully for having plucked them from the vine and chosen to eat them despite their protestations. Flobcumbers make good stew—casseroles, too. And pies, sandwiches, and lingerie.
Ravna would know. Just ask the gorillas!
The day ended. Another began.
Hmm. There’s a paper towel on my desk. It hasn’t been used; it’s just sitting there. Waiting to be used. To be used, then disposed of casually as if, having valiantly given its absorbent little life in the line of duty, it was now utterly and completely worthless. (Well, a soggy paper towel is more or less worthless, isn’t it?) Obscure verb tenses once again reared their repugnant heads as I pondered inserting a future pluperfect, subjunctive voice, in the next sentence, but then decided against it at the very last moment.
If this be the subjunctive voice staring me in the face here (and you, too), my dear old Mamårp really must be a bigger trollop than Thomas Jefferson’s precocious little daughter. And damn, was little Lakeesha Jefferson quite the trollop!
The day ended. Another began.
Then it was yesterday. Saturday. O horrible, pestilential Saturday, why do you have to come around every week like clockwork? Why, O Saturday, do I hate you so? For it was on Saturday, during my continued ponderiferous skullduggery concerning Dingleberry–Hampsterism, that a homely pack of gin-guzzling armadillos did suddenly appear and did speak to me: And they said, “Håyi nå’ån-mu? Nå’ån-hu si Pnårp!” to me, to which in response I answered, “Murrrrp?”
Did you know that armadillos use their claws for digging and finding food, as well as for making their homes in burrows? They dig their burrows with their claws, only making a single corridor shaped like a twelve-year-old boy, where they fit themselves. They have five clawed toes on the hindfeet, and three to five toes with heavy digging claws on the forefeet. On the other hand, Alyssa Milano only has two feet, but damn are they salicious! And on a third hand, Geri Halliwell and Victoria Beckham grafted together into some sort of bizarre super-woman would have four feet—and damn would those four feet outdo any two feet that Alyssa Milano might have! [The preceding information was brought to you by Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia that even your retarded little brother can edit. Any inaccuracies will be met with loud guffaws and invitations to edit it yourself, and are not the responsibility of the Wikimedia Foundation, a non-profit foundation dedicated to bringing free inaccuracies to the world.]
The day ended. Another began.
Little known is the fact that St. Joe Kowalski of the Bronx once told me that Pope Boniface viii, that wormy old bastard who tried to usurp my throne a little over three years ago, only had a single thneed and sixty acres of truffula trees to his name. That made him a pretty poor pope in my Pnårpy little eyes, if you ask me! And of course you’re asking me, because if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be reading this intractable little webspite of mine.
Briefcase! Gatorade!!
Briefcase! Gatorade!!
Briefcase! Gatorade!!
Lastly, I must ask: If this entry has any semantic content whatsoever, please poit (poit!) it out to me, for I sure as hecklegroober can’t find it—and I’ve been looking for it all week!
[Feetnote: The invention of the speedball is variously attributed to Harry K. Thaw’s pet goose, followers of Sigmund Freud in the late sixteenth century, beatniks in the 1950s, an obscure and long-forgotten pharmacist (or possibly battlefield clown) from over a century ago, or American soldiers returning from the Sino-Congolese War.]