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375 gorillas and some flower pots

Dumbstruck on November 28, 2010.

This week began with a flash: The sudden realization that, even if Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir had left me, I still had a second girlfriend: Loquisha! Ah, little brown Loquisha! What a perfectly complementary replacement for Ravna! Little brown Loquisha and her delightfully sandaled feet!

So, Monday morning began afresh: I telepooned Ravna just as the clock struck me in the head as it fell from where it had been dangling, and had at her with noun and adjective.

“Ravna, you hoosie-fessed little skeetch-truncheon! You goobly-toonked little stink-spoon! You screech-warble! You yak breeder! You garefowl nosher! You monkey-bubbler! You… you… dog-dipped, hog-hipped, vole-stippled, grue-nippled, parsifelonious little ungabanipulator! It’ll be a cold day in northern California before I come begging to you again for your feet!”

Silence on the other end of the line.

I continued: “You can take those nasty feet of yours and stuff them up the nearest stuffleupagus! And your bony little toes, too!” It was the worst insult I could muster.

More silence.

“Hah! Don’t know what to say, do you? I bet you thought I was calling to whine and kerplunk, didn’t you? To whine and kerplunk, to blorple and schmorple like some yiff-biffed little twelve-year-old, eh? Well! I… don’t… think… so! And your days of using me to get to my gorillas are over!”

More silence.

“Hah! Dumbstruck, are we! Struck—dumb!? Has corn gone wrong, Ravna? Eh, Ravna? Has corn… gone wrong?!”

I cackled into the telepoon a few more times, hooted twice, and hung up. That’d show her!

Monday concluded with another flash of realization: Someone had replaced my telepoon with a pair of moose antlers. Ravna had heard none of my granfalloonerous posturing and most likely knew nothing about my elaborate plans to just up and forget about her. Drat and double-drat!

Tuesday morning began with a visit from my favorite next-door neighbor, Mr. Wilson: Apparently he was sick of the gorillas sneaking into his back yard at night, upending all his flower pots, and using them for latrines. At first I hemmed and hawed, squiffled and babbled, refusing to even acknowledge that gorillas defecate, let alone that mine do so all over Mr. Wilson’s back yard… but then I did a complete about-face and agreed to deal with the gorilla problem at once: For you see, dear readers, I am the Grand Pnårpissimo, and I had… an idea. Spwah-hah-hah-hahh!

Tuesday concluded with yours truly smarching down to the bus station and purchasing 375 tickets, destination: Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir’s house. That’d show her! Pwee, pwee, pwee-wee-wee!!

Wednesday morning began with a gorilla-free house—the first time in years.

Wednesday very nearly concluded peacefully… until my moose antlers rang. I picked up, and was greeted with the mellifluous sound of 375 gorillas ooh-oohing and aah-aahing with gusto and glee, and one Icelandic beauty frantically requesting, between grunts and squeaks, that I send my gorillas elsewhere, and even more frantically promising me her feet forever if I did so. Both of them—with all ten slender white toes! I quickly agreed, belly-hooted in triumph, and bought 375 more bus tickets—to the address of one Maximilian X. Wilson. That’d show him! Pwee, pwee, pwee-wee-wee!!

Thursday morning began with Mr. Wilson frantically running down Bouillabaisse Boulevard in the direction of Gorgonzola Plaza: For you see, dear readers, 375 horny gorillas aren’t particularly choosy about whom they ooh-ooh and aah-aah with!

That’ll show him! Pwee, pwee, pwee-wee-wee-weee!!

[Feetnote: The rest of the week was uneventful, except for my sudden recollection on Friday of that hot lesbian scene with Tora Ziyal and Kira Nerys that I’d seen on TV years ago. It made me pine for the fjords harder than ever before. And on Saturday I learned that, and I quote, “Only Nixon could go to China.” Do not go gentle into that good night, Tricky Dick—rage, rage against the dying of the light!]