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Just so he could moo at someone

Percolated on July 3, 2011.

And thus today continued a thousand-year period of the same old crap that the last thousand-year period offered.

I had a dream a couple days ago about a giant oatmeal cookie laying eggs up my nose and dressed in a dominatrix costume (the oatmeal cookie, not my nose). One of the little scootle-birdies that inhabits my newest favorite website told me that this dream had broken Rule 34, one of the most sacred rules of the Internet—so I knew my addlepated little subconscious must have been onto something big.

And then yesterday morning, while noshing hap-hap-happily upon one of America’s finest jalapeño-infused cheeses, I recalled that Mr. Szczerbaczewicz often went to incredible lengths just so he could moo at someone. So I called up Mr. Szczerbaczewicz on my moose antlers and asked him why this was so. But instead of answering my question, he told me—after a long pause—to go suck a garnering-pole!

“But, Mr. Szczerbaczewicz,” I retorted sibilantly, “there’s nary a garnering-pole left on Bouillabaisse Boulevard: Fyodor Vyacheslavovich Tvalashvili took them all with him when he went back to Georgia!”

An image popped into my mind: Me, gently rapping on a turtle’s shell with a sceptre I had stolen from the Pope. The turtle would watch me resignedly. And I would giggle like a little girl still in her pigtails and just continue rapping.

Mr. Szczerbaczewicz huffed and whuffed into the phone impatiently. Then, sighing, he asked me if I had called to purchase any meat from him. A memory popped into my mind: Mr. Szczerbaczewicz was co-owner of the local butchery shoppery. And suddenly it all made sense: What better way to lure cows to the slaughter than to moo at them? But why moo at people? Further inquiry was needed.

And so I inquired again, more insistently, about his penchant for mooing at people. I informed him that none other than our town’s most reliable rumor-monger had told me all about this rather curious habit of his, but Mr. Szczerbaczewicz just kept beating around the bush and asking me about my meat needs.

“Enough beating about the meat!” I interrupted his attempts to sell me some Westphalian pizzlewurst for $6.99/pound. “I don’t need your sausage! Now answer my questions, you unga-pelunger, or I’m going to scootle on over there in person and bonk you over the head with a garnering-po—”

“I thought you didn’t have any garnering-poles!”

“Well, I can find one!”

“And when you do—go suck on it!”

Mr. Szczerbaczewicz would hear no more of my paternosterings. He hung up. I threw my own telephone into my toilet in a usufruct rage and then flushed. And then flushed, and flushed, and flushed. It wouldn’t go down, of course; the telephone was much larger than any domestic plumbing pipe known to man and duck. But that didn’t stop me from spending six hours trying!

Finally my rage died down to nothing more than a snit. I decided to go find something else to do.

I scurried, rat-like, into my kitchen. Realizing how aimless this Saturday had been so far, I aimed my ass at the aspartame… and fired. The aspartame didn’t stand a chance; it crumpled into an artificially sweetened heap on the floor. A can of spam leapt from the roof of my new neighbor’s house and landed on a fire hydrant over a hundred smoots away. A bog-wench fortengled dolefully. I was amazed by it all, and said so—loudly, leaning out my kitchen window and using my best shrieking voice. Two passers-by stopped passing by and stared. I crossed my eyes and repeated my shriekings. They hurried off—I declared victory.

As a long-time believer in the paranormal, I immediately concluded that the heretofore aimlessness of this particular Saturday was entirely the responsibility of that pair of poltergeists that had descended from the astral plane (the one above my house) and taken up residence behind my wainscoting. Such a muldersome predicament had only one solution: The rapid and intentional onset of obtundation, followed by morose moribundity and defecal insipidity. I began at once.


Sunday began a short while later. I was startled awake—and out of my obtundity—by a strange, buzzing cacophony that seemed to come from everywhere. I yerked and scrambled out of bed to make sure it wasn’t Yappie having another one of his thermobaric farting sprees. Finding Yappie tucked snugly in his doggie bed, I breathed a sigh of relief, relieved I could still do so. But what was that sound? Where was it coming from? It sounded like an armada of man-size bumblebees were about to invade my palatial home, or perhaps a clutch of Gregarian Wheezing Gnomes. Or perhaps another nose-blowing accident was underway somewhere in town, just like the one back in ’76—but where? And would we suffer yet another six-month-long Kleenex shortage as a result?

But, as I passed by the kitchen window—the very same window through which I always engage in my most invidious shriekings and babblings—I saw out of the corner of my eye (the bottom one) what was transpiring: Not another nose-blowing accident, but… ocelots, and lots of them. They were all sitting on my front lawn and peering at me through the window. “An ocelotting accident!?” I enquivered to myself, out loud, for I always talked to myself when I was alone—sometimes at great length and even greater volume. “An ocelotting accident? We haven’t had one of those on Bouillabaisse Boulevard in over forty-three yea—”

It was then that Ravna wandered downstairs, barefoot and bleary-eyed, still 93½% asleep, and most likely thinking that the cacophonic buzzing reverberating throughout my palatial abode was my fault: After all, anything so bizarre and otherworldly usually is my fault. I was still conversing with myself animatedly, for I nearly always do so even when not alone—often at great length and even greater volume.

“It’s not me, Rav!” I interrupted myself as I eyed Ravna’s porcelain-white little feet and toes. I went on explaining to my hoosie-fessed little skeetch-truncheon: “I think it might be all those ocelots out on my front lawn.” I pointed at the ocelots.

There were no ocelots.

There wasn’t even anything that looked like an ocelot out there.

A stray cat wandered by. But not an ocelot.

“Where’d all the ocelots go!?” I demanded to know of myself. Ravna sighed and wandered over to the coffee pot. Sudden realization hit me like a barrel of pincer monkeys. My eyes widened. “Wait, Ravna! No, not the coffee p—!”