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And then I’ll fart one more time, and…

Intruded upon August 29, 2021.

In reality, time and space exist in me. I do not exist in them.

Some say all the world is a stage, but I say, all the world exists within my left nostril. (Hell is in the right one.)

On this day, 13.77 billion years ago, a primordial skeezle-wumpus farted: Setting in motion all the events that make up my life in the here-and-now, along with the lives of every one of you, dear readers, and the planet upon which we all squat so rigormortally… and even the entirety of space around us as far as the nose can see.

Sometime between 1015 and 1025 years from now—depending on some very theoretical skeezle-wumpus physics that skeezle-wumpicists have yet to understand fully—all of the white dwarfs within our gorgothine Universe will cool down into utter blackness. And from then on, black dwarfs will rule the cosmos. The Sun will be a cold neutronium sphere, Earth will be a lifeless ball of ice, and the noble skeezle-wumpus that started it all will still be there at the center of the Universe. Its chrome-vanadium–plated paws will continue to dole out the particles that make up all the mass around us; its adamantium-plated thorax will still glow unwaveringly, providing energy and light to us all. But when the last white dwarf shrivels down to −268 °C, blackening, then the skeezle-wumpus will fart one more time, and it will be over. The final flatulence will toll. The Universe will be at an end.

And then I’ll fart one more time and write the next week’s blog entry.

“Gabba-gabba hey! Gabba gubba goo-bort! Boo-bort!!”

That miscreantal nonsensery smashed its way back through my brainpan this week; it was a mifflious quote from a blog entry long ago. I heard it out loud, not just in my mind, not just in my mind’s ears, but loudly aloud: Was it a hallucination? Or was one of my mischievous neighbors playing vile tricks on me again? Or—was it my pet kerfrumpt playing tricks on me? I had to know, and I had to know now. I stood up, puffed myself up grandly, and belted out as many syllables as I could, before becoming hoarse as a hoary horse (of course!). Then I settled back down onto my haunches like a slowly simmering pot of tortellini. I squatted, waiting. Waiting.

Was it Darmok at Tanagra? Or Nimrod at Shinar? Only time—my ceiling-mounted clock, to be specific—would tell. I decided to eat another book full of metaphors and this time fart loud enough that my neighbors would hear (and feel) it. I then went wandering in the woods until the ticks exsanguinated me. Afterhow, I returned home, pale as a sheet, and waited for my blood to regrow.

Nothing transcurred this past week about which was worth enwriting in this blog a single whit, but!—I did bag another dog and passed a burrito. I also, I confess, encompassed 360° of furfural nodoogity and finally dorked an empanada. I soon would go on a trip to Finland, by fish or by fin—but that would wait. A Finn arrogantly claimed I owed him €717 for some fish boots, but I objected: I rejected his dunning letter, pompously cifrected in reply, and dorked another murp. Only my purple nurples seemed less relevant to this paragraph, so I decided not to mention them. (Drat, I actually did.)

There is no meaning here—only trinkets and baubles, whizgigglings and dibdaubles. All of these are paternostically treacling out the days until I surpass this existence and go on to the 33rd level of doofus-shaped serenity. Nothing matters, nobody matters, no things matter, no “lives” matter, and a smattering of paisley parsley, parsimonious parsnips, and conspiratorial oatmeal cookies would seal the day: Seals barked, dogs barked, and off in the distance—a hog forked. Another process forked on my computer, and I danced the dance of the alpaca joy. A goat burped—a volcano erupted!—and my own buttocks erupted in a gluteal bout of pylons not witnessed since Horst Dorsten Forster, Margrave-Primate of Sträsmussenbörg, forced his way into the gorst horse barn in a.d. 717.

Captain Pinnfarb knows—he knows. I have another sixteen glasses of rancid crab juice to drink before the day is up. But I do not want to. Mot and his seven sons have nothing on Mr. Mot the barber. For these reasons I corned (scornfully) and I queefed (beefily); I even murped a little (in my pants). Rather’n drink my Nurgdurbettish crab juice, I hid in my newly dug hole in the ground and spent the day petting my scaly ol’ kerfrumpt. Oh, no!—my blargh entry is late—oh, so late!—but I don’t care. I had better things to do this week, like make excuses and stare listlessly into space from my hole in the ground, petting my kerfrumpt and making horking and wherging noises deep in my throat. My readers would wait. And if they won’t, I shall make more inarticulate gabbling noises until they quit complaining and back away slowly. And so again I burp, bag a dog, and pass the burrito. (This one’s covered in dog hair. [The burrito.])

It’s all about doofus-shaped serenity now.

Excuses: I had a horse-christening ceremony to attend last Sunday, which explains—with a minimum of dissembling—why my blargh gantry is late. It does not explain why my blog entry is late, but that can be explained by the ant, the cockroach, and the 6′ grasshopper sitting atop my computer, warning me that if I continue pinching out this dreck and posting it to the Interbutts, they’ll crawl into my ears at night and eat my brain (what’s left of it). I dared them to try.

Gurglesday was a new day inserted between Tuesday and Wednesday this week. Along the piriforms I did roam: The piriforms, the sea, the sea—and then there is no more. The German village of Nurgdurbett-am-Rye is the key. With a sandwich made of rye bread, Swiss cheese, baconnaise, and fried moose synapse I did go. But I didn’t go to Finland yet. My ship still hadn’t come in. And my house was full of owls again. Dreck, dreck! Cacophony and dreck!

I tried to improve my game by taking a powder made from sheep glands, but all it did was turn me into a sheep. That caused me to spend a whole day bleating and growing wool in the most obscene places.

I never learned the true story of Garon II. Truth was, after all, in the eye of the beholder, and truthiness and alternative facts ruled the day. I rued the day: For all I knew, the cause was hamsters (or hampers). Or a violent Dingleberry–Hampsterist revolution. Again I smurfed, a bit miffed, and then saltily smorked—Sefernday would soon be here, and I was ill-prepared this year. This blørg entry was shaping up to be a Sefernday dress rehearsal, I realized: Possible preparation ındeed. And so I yerked. I yiffed. I murped some more. The slithy toves mivulated. I in my yak suit (the chicken suit I threw up in a tree is too far gone, alas) and my kerfrumpt in a goofy elf hat were ready not just for Sefernday, but for Christmas, Michaelmas, Goosemas, Turkeymas, Partridgemas, and even Pinnfarbmas.

It was an invitation to interstellar circus lovers and I did attend. The day would be another surreal happening in the paracosm that was my daily life. But more about that at a later date. There are too many commas surrounding me and I need to extirpate a few. Be right back.

At three o’clock in the morning, durnk as a skurnk, I was walking ploddingly along the train tracks that ran along Squayzie Avenue, an uneven surface, so I decided to cut one leg shorter than the other so I could saunter along without tilting. “Just call me ‘Gumby Man,’ I proclaimed—loudly, and in a hooting voice—whereupon I decided to continue to make owl-like hooting noises for the remainder of my solitudinous ambulation. Lights went on in house windows as I passed, for my hooting was very, very loud, and very, very persistent in some cases. I was indeed Gumby Man, and Owl Man, and when I returned home, I slept up in the tree tree with my decaying chicken suit (like an owl).

Captain Pinnfarb, the Knib-Knob Gnome, was now considered a martyr and hero. His mettle had made him meddle, for which he received the finest metal medal. Made of pure tin, surrounded in a sheath of aluminum and finally plated in world-renowned zinc, it was the finest medal the gnomely awards committee could construct from the cans and old Matchbox cars that they had recovered from a trashcan that morning. I cranched in consternation when I read about this, but there was nothing I could do: I was all out of buttwash.

The Knib-Knob Gnomes would rue the day.