Technicolor horse testicles
Nuked on June 27, 2010.
I think I broke the Internet…
I tried to destroy PNARP.SYS last week, I really tried… but a few hops down my journey onto the Internet I suddenly realized that people of my weight (and girth!) couldn’t easily transform themselves into an IP packet… and then I realized that my attempt to do so merely resulted in a cable modem busted open, with all its parts strewn about my computering room like candy from a piñata.
And then I realized the Internet was gone. I think I broke it.
I crawled into a hole, guilt-stricken, and waited.
It was then that seven hundred Technicolor horse testicles descended from the sky and demanded to know what had become of Fort Incarpathianable. I hid deeper in the hole, but it had no effect. I waited. They waited. Finally, I crawled out, glued my eyes together, and then squiffled and babbled before mumblesputtering an answer, which, thinking back on it, wasn’t much of an answer at all. But, my answer was short, quick, and to the point: “Murrrp?”
The Technicolor horse testicles were unimpressed. I mumblesputtered some more excussion, trying to remember what ever had actually happened to Fort Incarpathianable. A lawn gnome came to life and darted behind the three-way switch plate next to my front door. Off in the distance, a dog barked. Closer by, a dog was eaten suddenly by a grue. I enquiffled, squiffling less but babbling slightly louder. I shuffled in place, bruffling and brachiating like a chimp trying to bribe President Polk for a seat under his cabinet. Then, it hit me like a ton of Shitlingthorpe–Alabaster Flapdoodles dropped from a hot air balloon. I remembered!
“Oh! That Fort Incarpathianable! I remember now! I even rememper! Alyssa Milano sued me for ooga-boogling her juicy, juicy feet one too many times, and then I was in court, and then I went on a sudden and unexpected farting spree, and then my sleazy lawyer and that old Judge Blumpkin or whatever seized Fort Incarpathianable for lunch!” I babbled. It all made perfect sense to me that these Technicolor horse testicles would want to know about my old fort… but why now? Why did these vividly colored gonads have such an acute interest in my old fort made out of file folders and legal briefs now?
I continued: “Then there was something about a graceful parabolic arc through the atmosphere… and, uh, the usual howling descent into the hard, hard earth below… and…” My memory became foggy at this point. I turned on my defroster and waited a moment. “…Oh, yes! I landed smack-dab in the biggest darned hecklegroober of a cow pie that you ever did see! Uhhh… then there were gnomes! Gnomes! Not just any gnomes, but Schmongeling Gnomes from Westphalia! I think there were… there were…” I dug deep into my basal ganglia for the memory. “Yes! There were 310,509,211 of them, give or take! And they… they took my fez! Those fiends! I ended up having to gallivant home with a piece of pepperoni tied to my ankle in order to ward those little ugga-buggers off! But I made it… and Alyssa Milano even survived—along with her feet! Woo-hoo-hey!!”
The horse testicles, satisfied with my explanation as to the enduring absence of Fort Incarpathianable, disappeared in a puff of girth and rollercoasters.
Now that was weird. Or, as John Updike was prone to saying thirty-six years ago, “Briefcase! Gatorade!! DRADIS contact!!!”
[Feetnote: I set down and wrote this prior to jetting over to Älvdalen for the weekend, so some of it might not make much sense. I blame the jet lag—jet lag so intense that it kerfluffled my tiny little brain before I even boarded the plane!]