Rotating in place
Caligulated on March 20, 2011.
Rotating in place proved to be utterly fruitless this week (and on Wednesday in particular), so instead I decided to take another trip down to my favorite butchery shoppery. It went by the overly sibilant name of Szczerbaczewicz & Smith and currently resided on Swithenby Street next to the Crunkin’ Donuts. Unfortunately the trip proved to be equally as fruitless; Mr. Szczerbaczewicz even laughed right in my face when I asked him if his butchery shoppery bore any fruit. What an ass! Why should I have known that such a store sold nothing more than meat, meat, and more meat? (And even more meat!) I stomped out of there in a huff, my own meat tucked sheepishly between my legs, vowing never to return.
Unless I ever found myself in need of some meat of course.
Ham-fisted puns out of the way (at least for this week… but what of next?), I returned home and spent the evening pondering relentlessly banal questions such as if toilet paper should be hung over or under, if it’s possible for blue cheese to ever become moldy, or if my nose was on too tight. These questions plagued me well into my sleep and caused the most mulpiciously vexing nightmares I had ever experienced in the 41 years of my Pnårpy life. Bounding out of bed Thursday morning, I immediately set about finding answers to these questions… or die trying.
I was resuscitated Friday morning by the crack team of gnomish EMTs that I keep tucked away in my wardrobe for just such a purpose (that is, both my frequent deaths and insatiable need for gnomes). I awoke to find my coffee pot coffeeing away merrily on my kitchen counter, Yappie sleeting soundly all smug in his bread, and much orgiastic flim-flam paternostering out the fendippitous defeasles of their time. Whether or not such fendippity involved any eggs, or man-eggs, was never determined—and for good reason. A reason I would tell you about, dear readers, if it wasn’t for the swarm of brown marmorated stink bugs busily marmorating my entire house as I write this. And even now, much to my chagrin, snow fleas have started spewing from every snowbank surrounding my palatial home, causing the glands in my neck swell to the size of basketballs, in turn causing me to desire purchasing—or making, if need be—a candle composed of horse semen in place of wax. Would such a candle burn? Soon, I would find out!
Fortunately my gnomish EMTs double as a gnomish construction crew, so my gutted house was rebuilt quickly Saturday, one charred shingle and two-by-flower at a time. Back to my padded room I then did go, singing merrily about Oort dogs and quarter hogs as I went, and whistling “Pixie” as I went all over the floor. But one question remained, as one question so often does ’round these parts: RuPaul… or Ron Paul? Context notwithstanding, I would vote for the former every time. Or perhaps Jada Fire, naked and covered in grits. And my former cow orkers from the doorknobbery would have agreed, I was sure of it.
Ashen soil. Leaden sky. The burning air. And Narn porn.
Ah, petty little Sunday, rearing your pestilential head already. How I hate you like the plague. And to make matters even worse today, my dearest sister Plårp wasn’t in the mood to play “Julia Drusilla & Caligula” with me like we usually did on Sunday evenings. Thus the panentheon of her most supple feet-&-toes would have to be merely imagined by yours truly rather than visaged directly, and remembering that hot lesbian scene with Samantha Carter and Dr. Fraiser that I’d seen on TV years ago would have to tide me over until next Sunday.
Lysander sauce notwithstanding, I have to go. To the bathroom. That dysplumbious gas station bathroom of yore. Goodnight, you salivating crotch-salamanders of damnation!