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Dyssynergic defecation

Splashed down on April 24, 2011.

Dyssynergic defecation indubitably dominated the days of my week once again, exactly as it had last week. I was beside myself with despair and nearly at my wits’ end—and I do have a lot of wits to work through before reaching the end of them. Obsessing over the sublime perfectitude of Alyssa Milano’s angelic feet didn’t help. Obsessing over that hot lesbian scene with Zoe Washburne and Nandi that I’d seen on TV years ago didn’t help. Not even obsessing over all fifty of the Spice Girls’ long and slender toes helped!

It was on Thursday—precisely when my addlepated little self was contemplating the last toe on Geri Halliwell’s right foot—that I did indeed finally reach my wits’ end. Miraculously, this didn’t cause me to suffer the usual out-of-gourd experience; instead I found myself on the planet Ogo, part of an intellectual elite, preparing to subjugate the barbarian hordes on Pluto. How this came about, I know not—but that was the end result. The Onceler, once famous for the biggest environmental disaster in the entire fictional world, but now working a dead-end job as a Spend-O-Mart greeter after the collapse of the thneed market, piloted the rocket ship we used to get to Pluto, and the Twiceler and Thriceler served as first mate and navigator, respectively. I, being the Grand Pnårpissimo, trained in every martial and marital art known to mankind, naturally led the cohort of gnomish space marines we were taking into battle with us.

The Battle of Pluto was swift and decisive. Our gnomish marines vanquished the evil barbarian hordes with no trouble at all. They didn’t even need to use their blood plasma rifles or ronald ray-guns. We suffered no casualties; even my mottled pink spacesuit was undamaged. After the battle, we all celebrated with a round of Elkwater Ales and ytterbium snacks (or was it yttrium?), then rocketed back to Ogo in time to watch the next episode of the reimagined Pound Puppies series, starring Edward James Olmos as Cooler. They really do want to go home with you—now in 3D!

I returned to Earth the very same next previous morning, once again riding on the back of a really, really big fish. This enormous fish was composed entirely of small, iridescent fish, each of which in turn were composed of tinier iridescent fish, each of which were composed of microscopic iridescent fish. It went on forever, it appeared, or so I feared—whereupon I had another polydactyly episode which could only be cured by chewing off all seven fingers sprouting from my left nostril (the one shaped like a twelve-year-old boy).

Escape, escape! One semicolon… two peas!

Yappie! Where are you!? Yappiddah, yappiddah, yappiddah, yappiddah, yyyaappp!!!



Yoinks yoinks!!

It was on Friday—precisely when I awoke to find myself in a muddy ditch alongside Terwilliger Street wearing a fishbowl over my head and a full-body suit stitched together from slices of salami—that I realized that I did indeed have another out-of-gourd experience. Judging by the large puddle of greasy yellow spam byproduct I found myself lying in, I concluded—much to my usual chagrin—that this out-of-gourd experience was probably even worse than that horrible bookmarking accident I had suffered on Tuesday.

The constipation remained.

And then Saturday happened, despite my best efforts to prevent it, and still… the constipation remained.

And then Sunday schronked on by, despite my best efforts to elude it, and still… the constipation remained.

Little doubt remained in my mind that when Monday exploded onto my calendar in all its lunatic horror, the constipation would remain. And remain, and remain.

Putting the horrors of tomorrow out of my mind, I constipatedly sat down in front of my computerational device (called a “computer” by some people) and constipatedly started twickling out this week’s unctimonious blob entry. And now, that twickling is all done, so here we are. Stick this in your pipe and smoke it, sparky! Goodnight, you salivating crotch-salamanders of damnation!