Oatmeal cookies… behind it all!
Completely forgotten on November 7, 2010.
Not since Pope John Paul II, in a stunningly cavalier bout of largesse, had canonized every sixth inhabitant of Loyalsockville, Pennsylvania (said inhabitants arranged tallest to shortest), had I been so vendaciously hoodwinked.
Hornswoggled, even!
Bamboozled!!
You see, dear readers, my idea last week to save my knobby hide from freeze-drowning in the Atlantic not only turned out to be an unmitigated failure—Bobo, Mississippi is still there, it would seem, and contains no more Volvos than the typical American city—but, to add in-slut to injury, it seems the very idea was planted in my head by none other than my perfidious oatmeal cookies and their spies. Those fiends!
I always knew I hadn’t seen the last of those knaves, and it turns out I was right.
Right, I tell you! Right!!
“But how did you find out, Pnårp?” you’re probably asking. I’ll spare you the details—a long and dreary story beginning with my corpse freezing from the toes up, and ending with wild hallucinations about Lucy Lawless barefoot racing through my quickly crystallizing synapses—but suffice it to say it’s a long and dreary story beginning with my corpse freezing from the toes up, and ending with wild hallucinations about Lucy Lawless barefoot racing through my quickly crystallizing synapses. That’s all I’ll say.
Well, maybe one more thing: “Spwahhh!”