Ravna and a tub of port wine cheese spread
Slathered all over on November 21, 2010.
I’m Pnårpeye the Sailor Man!
I’m Pnårpeye the Sailor Man!
I’m strong to the finich,
’Cause I eats me spinach,
I’m Pnårpeye the Sai—
As soon as it started, I quickly cut off the music once again hooting out of my bed cushions. A single misunderstood verse of this gorplious little ditty led me on a string of disasters last week, culminating in being arrested for “indecent exposure” for accidentally mistaking Mayor Julian Rhoodie’s desk for a public bathroom.
But enough about last week: This week’s entry is about this week!
Monday morning began with Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, in all her porcelain-white beauty, stuffing my nostrils full of Everlasting Gobstoppers and my gob with Eternal Nostrilpluggers. Unable to protest (at least using actual syllables formed into words), I could only guess that this curious course of action was her idea of revenge for me interfering with the ooh-oohing and aah-aahing my gorillas give her. So, I merely sat back and enjoyed the ride.
Monday concluded with three of the gorillas breaking out of their cages in my fifth-floor bedroom, and once giving Ravna the ol’ ooh-oohing and aah-aahing once again.
Tuesday morning began with news of Mayor Julian Rhoodie’s continued esquivalience finally resulting in his being booted from office. People were apparently so outraged that they actually used a size 13 this time. Fortunately for me, Tuesday morning concluded with Tuesday afternoon, which in turn ran into Tuesday evening.
Darkness fell and couldn’t get up, which indicated to me that Tuesday evening had arrived. I spent the evening strapping pepperoni to myself and running in circles around my palatial home. Ravna just watched. The gorillas watched her. Deep in the Mekong Delta, a dord forked. Closer by, a dog disembarked.
Wednesday morning began with a grumnutterous bout of mirth and alabaster. My nose aflame with greefire and crunkthunder, I dispatched every bit of it (the mirth and alabaster) with a quick boot to the head. I used a size 15, wide, with hobnails, just to be sure…
Wednesday concluded with my bed cushions once again blaring “Gargle My Arglebargles” by Three Fat Fish, which wouldn’t stop until I tore all the plumbing from my basement (again!), slathered myself in Merkt’s® port wine cheese spread (again!), wrote “Pnårp!!” all over my nose (again…), and schtupped Ravna like there was no tomorrow. And considering Ravna was allergic to port wine cheese, there would be no tomorrow… at least no tomorrow with Ravna.
Thursday morning began with drunken, sobbing telephone calls, continued with Ravna calling me a goonk-toonked floopity-flarble and hanging up on me in a huff (again…?), and concluded with me crawling in a hole in the ground and declaring to never come out again—not even to rotate my tires every 6,000–8,000 miles…
Thursday concluded with me in a hole in the ground.
Friday morning began with me in a hole in the ground.
Friday concluded with me in a hole in the ground.
Saturday morning began with me remembering that hot lesbian scene with Shane Vansen and Feliciti OH that I’d seen on TV years ago. This alone gave me the strength to press on, so I pressed “On” on my battery-operated Pocket Pope and was immediately blasted clear of the hole in the ground into which I had so unctimoniously fled. I landed about 70 smoots away, give or take a hotdog, and only suffered two minor injuries: A gobstopped trachea and a complete loss of polydactyly on my right hand.
Saturday concluded with all the color going out of the Universe (not again!), and Kevin and Rishon Uxbridge paying me a visit—merely so they could laugh in my face about the obsequious flobcumber sandwich they had planted in my refrigerator. Another trip to the sublime plenum was clearly in order, in order to sort this all out and put things back in order. Unfortunately, Worlorn and Lh’owon got in the way again, and before I could blow even a single note of alarm out my nostrils, I was attacked by a Kimdangian emu and sent packing. Backpacking. Backpacking in the southern Pacific while hoary toads danced upon the insufferable burglecore of my FOO/Linux laptop, and Jesus preached in a mighty baritone of the Psychedelic Vagina of Love and Peace.
Sit on my face! Sit on my face!!
…Well, that was an unintentional ubble-bubble. Seems I had yet another out-of-gourd experience (again!?). This week was apparently déjà vu all over again, even as I clearly burbled and murpled out yet another infractaculous stream of consciousness while not actually conscious.
Anyway…
Sunday morning began with me sitting down in front of the ol’ board o’ keys and banging this entry out like the miniature yeti in heat that I am. And no matter how vivid they were, fantasies of Lucy Lawless nude, barefoot, and slathered in axle grease would not interfere this time!