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A stick of pepperoni a day

Bordured on August 21, 2011.

I still have my notochord—just like what my primitive fish-ancestors had. I was quite pleased to remember this on Monday, as my notochord has been quite useful throughout my life, supporting me not only in the good times but the bad, too.

You know what else has been useful this week? Salamanders—and lots of them. Slippery, slimy, salamandery salamanders. When it had first invaded my back yard on Tuesday, I thought there would be nothing I could do to rid myself of that Javan stink badger, but then I remembered the six 55-gallon drums full of salamanders that I keep in my bestiary to feed to the albino penguins (which in turn are food for the shuggoths, but that’s another story). One barrel more than sufficed: When I set that wriggling mass of salamanders go in the back yard, that Javan stink badger took off faster than you can say “Cunnusburble.”

And then there’s that dried-up dollop of cheese still hanging from my ceiling. Was its presence yet another case of hornswoggling bamboozlement—or perhaps even the rarer rumfustian ramboozlement? It was awful close to my old I’ve-been-hornswoggled corner, I noted chalantly. Did the Bavarian Creaming Gnomes that I recently brought home from Dunkin’ Donuts put the dollop there? Or perhaps it was smeared up there by those Prussian Perusing Gnomes that I always encounter nibbling at the corners of all the books in my study on the fifteenth floor of my palatial home.

“Could it have been a batch of morons from Moravia… or some pomposity from Pomerania?” I empuzzled to myself out loud. But my cheesy ruminations were cut short by yet another seemingly irrelevant and aimless episode of this week’s salabrious undercrunkery: The fimbriated man had arrived once again. So, not only was it time to stop throwing pancakes on the ground, but it was finally… pepperoni jelly time!

Pepperoni jelly time! I started hooting like a moose that had had its synapses removed and served for breakfast right in front of its eyes. The fimbriated man just stared, all bordured gules and ermine. “Pepperoni jelly and a football bat! Pepperoni jelly and a football bat! Hey, yeah! Hey, yeah!” I gyrated like a madman. Dinglebuckey got up on his hind legs and gyrated with me, just like the proleptic little hamster that he is.

“A stick of pepperoni a day keeps the doctor away!” I reminded myself, shuddering at memories of Dr. Unterguggenburgerheimer and his steely probes of medicinery. I continued dancing. Dinglebuckey fetched me my pepperoni, and down the hatch it went, one whole stick at a time!

Friday revealed that it had perhaps been a mistake to attempt to survive for several days on nothing more than sticks of pepperoni. For a more healthious man, such a pepperonial diet may suffice, but my goaty frame suffered greatly as a result of several days’ abstinence from all other foods. Not only did all my toes fall out, but several of my internal organs escaped through the tiny hole at the base of my spine and refused to come back until I started feeding them “real food” (in the words of my left kidney) again.

So after finally coaxing and cajoling my organs to return to their proper spots within my pepperonious corpse, I resumed my standard diet of spam, potted meat, Mountain Dew, spotted meat, and house shingles glazed with authentic plastic orange cheese. They were happy. I was happy. Even that fat glob of turkey stuffing living next door to me was happy.

Friday ended; I breathed a sigh of relief. Saturday commenced without delay, continued for precisely 24 hours, and then ended abruptly, ushering in another 24-hour period that called itself “Sunday” this week. And then the week ended. But will another begin? I guess we’ll just have to wait and see!