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Parndiddle McForsterbaster

Pinned up on September 5, 2010.

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

But that’s not very pertinent to my story this week, not by any means. I feel for that poor squirrel-fox-dingo, I really do—all those hot and Gothy Jack Off Jill chicks jacking it off without cease—but my story this week begins with a man named Parndiddle McForsterbaster, who lived his entire life on the head of a pin.

Poor old Parndiddle came to me one day, and asked me if I knew where his bottle of groinrinse had gone. Never having possessed such a concoction in my life, but highly familiar with the useful and destructive powers of bottled buttwash, I inquired as to what exactly groinrinse was good for (besides the obvious implication implicitly implied by its name).

Parndiddle was tight-lipped. I concluded thusly that groinrinse was necessary for tiny, pin-sized men such as Parndiddle to engage in speech. Perhaps his vocal cords had dried out and a swig of cool, refreshing groinrinse was just what the doctor had ordered.

“C’mon, Parndiddle… do you mind if I call you Parndiddle?”

Parndiddle answered that I may call him anything I wanted to call him. So, I dubbed him “Schmaltzfarb” (no relation to Captain Pinnfarb, the Knib-Knob Gnome) and began calling him “Schmaltzy” henceforthwith.

“So, Schmaltzy, what by googly-moogly is a bottle of groinrinse for? I mean, what the hecklegroober is it good for? Does it cure enumeration? Can it rid me of my rampant butt-baldness? How many Libraries of Congress can I store on a hard drive made out of it? Can it be cured, pressed, smoked, dried, and manicured? Is it poisonous? Wait—did Samuel Dreckers, trained assassin, steal it in order to buttbuttinate someone by a poisoning?!” The wheels in my head spun madly as my brain pieced together the puzzle: Old Dreckers would fashion a garrote out of Parndiddle’s stolen groinrinse and garrote me to death in my sleep!

Parndiddle just stared silently at me through my barrage of questions. It made me feel really silly and even a bit stupid. Now he spoke: “No… all it’s good for is rinsing groins, Phillip.”

“You’re shitting me… you’re shitting all over me…!” I protested—to no avail, as the feces fell from the sky like chocolate hailstones. Lord almighty, stop this shitstorm!”

God must have gotten off the can for this one, for the shitstorm indeed stopped at that very moment.

Back to the topic at hand. Groinrinse. My mind focused on Parndiddle’s tiny form standing atop the hat pin I keep jutting out of the side of my isosceles valise (to stab people with). He was so amusingly tiny! I tried to suppress a giggle, which worked, but unfortunately caused me to suffer from fits of guffaws instead. Groiney just waited.

I finally regained my composure (which I found in the same place I had previously lost both my wherewithal and my aplomb). “Ahem. So, Groiney—do you mind if I call you Groiney?—where can I find a bottle of groinrinse?”

Groiny little Parndiddle McForsterbaster just stared at me with his tiny little groin-ridden eyes. This man was a master of psychomological gamery; I quailed in his presence. After yet another long pause, he finally again spoke: “…That’s what I asked you, Phillip. If I knew where to find it… I wouldn’t have asked you…”

Li’l Groiney made me feel like I was two inches tall. And making me feel like I was two inches tall made me feel like I was only 1½ inches tall… and so on until I was tinier than Parndiddle himself!

Looking up, I screeched in unholy matrimony as McForsterbaster, who now stood fifty times taller than me, towered over me. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!” I didn’t just quail this time, I flew: Flew like a quail shot out of the end of a circus cannon. Images of deadly, deadly bottles of groinrinse flew through my mind as I flew through my house, in such a fright that I seemed to have sprouted mosquito-like wings in order to flee more efficiently.

Suddenly a bat—clearly out of Hell—appeared from nowhere and, convinced that I was in fact a mosquito due to my new size (about 200 µm), ate me right up. My journey in search of groinrinse was over. I didn’t escape from the bat’s stomach until I was unceremoniously ejected from the other end of its body two days later.

…Which was just in time to upload myself to the series of tubes that bring you this web glob every shiny new week, and begin lumping words together into this gripping tale!

And still… hour after hour… even as it went nearly out of its mind with fornicatious goonflayvination, around and around those hot Goth chicks still went at that squirrel-fox-dingo, with ever more gluey gusto and panting glee…