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The tight, grimacing face

Impacted before April 17, 2011.

The tight, grimacing face of constipation greeted me this past Tuesday morning, greeted me in all its impacted glory. I tried and tried, strained and strained, but the results were nil. My toilet and buttocks had exchanged their customary greetings, the seat’s icy “hello” slowly giving way to warmth as usual. But try as I might, I had no offerings to give to my porcelain friend, and no climactic flush was to be had. After several hours, we parted in disappointment.

Wednesday was a hollow repeat of Tuesday. My faithful toilet again maintained a state of readiness all day long, but the poor girl was never actually called upon to do her dysplumbious duty.

Thursday galloped into view as the Sun rose the next morning. Once again I plopped myself on the ol’ toilet seat, but once again nothing plopped into the waiting pool of water below. Minutes passed. I strained. Nothing. More minutes passed. I pushed. Nothing. Hours passed. I groaned, grumped, and galumphed. Still nothing. More simple sentences passed. Still nothing. Finally, I galoobed, and—

Suddenly, a loud pop! issued forth, echoing between buttocks and bowl, followed by a most unexpected clattering, rattling cacophony not unlike a downpour striking a tin roof. I yelped and fell forward, landing on my forehead on the tiled floor. Hard plastic nurdles flew everywhere, bouncing and rolling across the bathroom floor in every direction. And then it dawned on me: Eating the six pounds of raw plastic that I’d found in a dumpster a week ago was apparently not a good idea.

What followed after my large intestine had finished expelling all those nurdles is not fit to print on a purportedly docile & perfunctory weblog, no matter how scatalogically oriented be its audience. So I shall say no more on this topic.

And so, by Friday I was back to my regular defecatory self. The remainder of the week was able to plod onward normally, just as weeks ’round these parts are wont to do. Yappie continued living out his doggie dreams. Dinglebuckey continued running endlessly on his hamster wheel, only stopping occasionally to continue planning Yappie’s demise for eating him. Haldûrburðgar continued plotting his reconquest of mankind, and Cthulhu slept silently, his eldritch tentacles invading the nightmares and fantasies of nubile, young Japanese schoolgirls everywhere. And I, in all my Pnårpy fendippity, continued experiencing the worst that Fate could inflict upon a wretched creature.

M-O-O-N. That spells “perspicacity”!

On Saturday, I awoke at 9 a.m. sharp to ponder a rather intriguing question: What’s better? A plim-fisted orangutan or a hoosie-waddled dormfuddie admirer? Furthermore, which of these would wear a lapel pin shaped like a duck? And which would be more likely to engage in the black art of prestidigitalization? These questions demanded answers, and only one man was qualified for the job: The eigenmonger on Strontium-90 Street. Unfortunately, he wasn’t home when I called him up, so instead I ate my telephone’s handset in an attempt to disenhornswoggle an answer—any answer—from the abortifacient skies above. Furthering my unfortune, the handset became lodged in my large intestine within hours, returning me to my erstwhile state of hopeless constipation. I howled in despairing grief and crawled into a hole in the ground I had dug for just this purpose. I called it my “Constipation Despair Hole.” In it I passed the time remembering that hot lesbian scene with Samantha Mulder and Monica Reyes that I’d seen on TV years ago, but still no handset passed out the tiny little hole beneath my spine. Bummer.

I awoke this morning as Pow, Biff, and Zork dragged me, kicking and screaming, from my Constipation Despair Hole. But I remained adamant in my griefdom: Not even William James McPhee or Bobby McGee would be able to cheer me up this time. I returned to the Hole and waited for the handset to pass. More hours plodded by, and still my three rowdy ex-coworkers from the spam-canning plant continued their unctimonious fipple-pupple, trying to coax, cajole, or coerce my cojones from the Hole.

Realizing today was Sunday, and my wobbly site needed updatin’, I finally emerged from the Constipation Despair Hole this evening—cojones first, of course. Chimeras within the matrix notwithstanding, my worldwide wobsite needed updatin’, so an-updatin’ I a-went.


“We’re Pound Puppies… we want to go home with you!”

Finally, drowning in a tub full of 4C grated cheese, I squeaked out a henpecked bit of viscosity, blasted the frog-vent core, prayed to Strahazazhia Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps, that most voluptuous of insect goddesses, drank my last bottle of Elkwater Ale, and then… went to sleep. At last. At least… at last! And as for you, dear readers: Goodnight, you salivating crotch-salamanders of damnation!