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Disgorgement and cheddar

Squassated on July 24, 2011.

Ever closer the harooloos had come howling. A steady hum filled the air, heavy and pregnant, and I lay supinely on the ground like a man who had had every bone in his body sucked out through his nose and replaced with Silly String. Beneath the pallid sky above, three tommygoffs continued brundling in lazy circles. And above the pallid sky beneath me flew their ghostly and ghastly reflections. They moved slowly: They could wait. I, unfortunately, could not.

“Har-oo-loo loo-loo loooo…” A larburous howl began to rise through the hum, steadily at first, and then after some seconds it trailed off slowly: An aural ellipsis. I flaunched grimptously and tried to stand on my boneless legs, knowing that those oobly-gnoobly and booloobullous harooloos would be upon me at any moomoobollent now. Somewhere out amongst the infinitely flat and glassy plain of the Brundlesphere they were hiding, waiting—crouched invisibly behind the invisible purple underbrush that dotted the invisible landscape like transparent stained lemons.

At last I was upon my feet (all ten of them). Wobbly, but standing. Another howl pierced the Brundlespheric hum, rising as before but then ending sharply with a wet, choking gurgle—the sound of a harooloo preparing to feast. I glanced upward at the slow and hypnotic motion of the scrofulous tommygoffs still in their holding pattern, as a band of squamous gnomes joined them to dance, dance, dance the night away. But there was no time to relax and smell the rows and rows of gnomes: The harooloos were on the prowl, and I had to move—and move quick.

Hours later, I finally snapped out of the trance into which I had fallen as a result of gazing at the trundling tommygoffs and blasphemously writhing gnomes. I looked down. My legs were gone—the harooloos had struck! Yet I still stood upright—as time had also done so all this time.

I momentarily separated into three people and brøderbunded loudly, suppressing a desire to run aimlessly into the unending dolority of the Brundlesphere. I—a Pnårply trinity—began to mivulate sonorously.

A brøderbunding cry echoed back at me across the Brundlescape. My heart leapt as the thought struck me that I might not be the only hapless Pnårp that had been trapped in the Brundlesphere for weeks now. My heart took a second flying leap—right up my throat and exiting bloodily through my left nostril—as an additional thought struck me: This other me might actually be me in two places at once!

My heart skittered off. Knowing that the harooloos would be back for more if I didn’t flee at once—and knowing how much of a spineless, bed-wetting coward I am in the face of even the slightest paranormalcy—I quickly decided against any rescue attempts. Zippy, my most loyal voice-in-the-head, quickly came to my rescue, offering a plethora of justifications and excuses for me to choose from, each less flimsy than the last.

“Sorry, little heart! You’re on your own! I, uh… have to go bathe Alyssa Milano’s feet and play with ’er toes!” I called out across the flat Brundleplain. “Let me know if you run into any harooloos!” I added cheerily and then set my mind on more important things.

I belched and scratched my testicles through my pants. Then I realized that I didn’t have any pants. And then I remembered that I didn’t have any legs either. Bummer.

The harooloos waited, and waited, and waited, and the tommygoffs continued their brundling. The wind picked up. My testicles itched, and all I yearned for now was Loquisha and her sandaled feet. Time… yearned, too.

Across the plain something skittered toward me. I squinted at it. If time hadn’t been preoccupied fapping furiously, it no doubt would have squinted colorfully along with me. I imagined the worse: Another pack of slavering harooloos, a cartonage of Fendippitous Eggmen, or perhaps even a flock of Sierpinski-toothed garefowl come to nosh upon the sweet, succulent brains resting gently atop my spine. I flaunched again and tried hard not to lapse into gibbering, incontinent panic.

I squinted harder… and then yipped, Chihuahua-like, when I realized what was coming toward me, through the acouasmic air: My very own Pnårpy little heart had returned! “My, that was quick!” I chootled nonchalantly as I picked the li’l bugger up off the crystalline ground and stuffed him back down my throat. Merrily I began to whistle “My Heart Is Back—Back—Back!” by Dishwasher Synergy as my mind drifted away from the horrors that surrounded me and back to merrier and prettier things like Alyssa Milano’s feet or Britney Spear’s toes.

I began walking on legless legs in whatever direction I chose: South, I think, but it could’ve been north, west, east-southeast, or even up. Direction has little meaning in a place like the Brundlesphere. I continued whistling, occasionally meeping like a cat, flabbling like a monkey, and even—dare I say it—once neighing like an alpaca who had just won the lottery and decided to take a morning stroll to celebrate his good fortune.

My heart is back—back—back!

It never went awaaay!

My heart is back—back—back!

Now it’s here to staaay!

Miles passed beneath me; the landscape changed. In place of the infinite flat and glassy plains of the Brundleplain there appeared now the infinite flat and glassy plains of the Brundleplain. A strange sensation suddenly gripped my Pnårpy bosom.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t my heart that had skittered back to me. It was a harooloo—and I had invited it inside me. It gnawed.

And for once, I howled—

Ever closer the harooloos had come howling. A silence filled the air, heavy and pregnant, and I lay supinely on the floor like a man who had had every bone in his body sucked out through his nose and replaced with Silly String. I stared up at the ceiling—the fog slowly clearing from my mind and a semblance of intelligence returning—and then I realized this was my own ceiling in my own palatial home.

The Brundlesphere had disgorged me once again—right where I had landed so many bizarre and incomprehensible months ago after my first unwilling trip into the Brundlebeyond. I tried to stand on my boneless legs. I wobbled—wobbily—but didn’t fall down. Idly I wondered if I was now a Weeble.

I gibbered. I flailed. I pawed the air like a spayed feline.

At last I was upon my toes (all two of them). I looked around, trying my hardest not to yip like a frightened Chihuahua again. Pages started flying off of my calendar; my clock spun feverishly. Tabs started opening themselves in my browser, all calling themselves “(Untitled)” and staring angrily at me. It was Saturday, July 23. Time too was angry this day. And thus today continued a thousand-year period of the same old crap that the last thousand-year period offered.

“Something smells like cheese in here! But… I don’t have any cheese in this room!”

And then with my two beady little eyes, I saw it—an image that will haunt my groin-ridden little synapses until my last days on this pnippy little Earth: In the corner of my computering room, my faithful Carpathian Yapping Hound, having been abandoned for weeks while his master flailed and floundered his way through the Brundlesphere, lay unmoving. My poor, senile, old Yappie.

Yappie had been transformed into a fifty-pound log of cheddar cheese. And it was going bad.

I yipped—