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Death by simultaneous drowning and dehydration

Dumbled for August 29, 2010.

And back out the Dumble Door this week came, starting this entry with a whiz, a bam, and a pop. Pop! Like a sound not heard since Rory Calhoun last slap-danced the tango with a squirrel-fox-dingo, this week began with a pop! not unlike the sound the aforementioned squirrel-fox-dingo’s package might make after long hours under the frantic and merciless attention of every single member of Goth band Jack Off Jill.

Hot and sweaty Goth chicks aside, this week proved to be mostly a bust—especially after I was attacked by a slew of salami-wielding tadpoles and left for dead in the middle of the Pacific Desert.

Reminding myself that such a predicament had a 98.201% chance of death—by simultaneous drowning and dehydration—convinced me that I had to move at once. So, I stood up and started to move. Back and forth, back and forth, swaying like a hamster hanging from a hemlock branch in high winds, until I exhausted myself and collapsed in a sweaty heap into the hot sand beneath my feet.

Treading water frantically, I reminded myself that depleting all of my energy in such an emergency situation wasn’t just a bad idea, it was a really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really bad idea. I lifted myself languorously above the waves of hot, dry sand and dragged myself back into a standing position. But, I then observed, as I chittered and goonflayvined like a chipmunk who just found out his mother had terminal cancer, standing at only a 5° angle to the ground was hardly “standing,” and was more, in fact, like merely lifting myself up on my elbows.

“Pepperoni jelly time!” I suddenly shouted to the four (hot, dry) winds (and one hamster). Dinglebuckey was nowhere to be seen—and if he had been here, surely by now he would be nothing more than a desiccated heap of skin and bones by this point. “Pepperoni jelly and a football bat! Pepperoni jelly and a football bat! Hey, yeah! Hey, yeah!”

And suddenly I had the strength to press on.

I pressed the “On” button on my pocket-sized Magic Oreo Machine™, and suddenly I was flying high above the Pacific Desert, on my way to complete safety.

I landed in my parking lot of a driveway at 29:17 this evening, just in time to repose this entry and then lull myself to sleep with the screeching cacophony that is “I Touch Myself” by Jack Off Jill.

I wondered if that “myself” was a squirrel-fox-dingo, but then dismissed it from myself’s own mind.

And still out from the Dumble Door this week streamed, continuing its existential sound effects with another pop, a whir, a wheedle, a roar, and even a might bit of goonflayvination to boot. The roar in particular was deafening, not unlike the sound of an angry and fat man demanding to supersize his seven cheeseburgers and four extra-large fries at a busy and backed-up McDonald’s drive-thru. That roar, quickly followed by a bubble and a squeak (not unlike the sound Anna Ohura might make if she caught her toe in a sliding door), subsided eventually, only to be replaced by endless repetition of the phrase “not unlike.” This, not unlike the piffle and babble a Goonhogo bureaucrat might spew after you get him all liquored up on rice wine, was also not unlike the thing that it was most assuredly like.

Like totally, man.

And still, around and around those hot Goth chicks went at that squirrel-fox-dingo, with gluey gusto and panting glee…