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A Sefernday to ſurely remember

Obſerved on October 24, 2021.

A joyful Sefernday to all! I proclaimed from atop my roolf early this morning. Proclaim it I did: A joyful, mooblious Sefernday to all! I hooted. I honked. I howled. I exclaimed and bellowed. I babbled, murped, and meeped. I flapped my arms. I raved. A joyful, mooblious, underdunkerous Sefernday to all!!

I couldn’t be any more emphatic if I tried. And try I did—but after another robuſt round of top-lung ſhrieking, my ſpleen ſplit aſunder and ſquirted out my noſtrils (quite exploſively, I might add). I ſtopped any further emphaticaliſtics right then and there, leſt any other vital organs ſtiched into my burſiform integument decide to eſcape.

Spleenleſs, I ſheepiſhly ſlunk down from my houſe’s roolf and ſlunk back inſide. After faſhioning a makeſhift ſpleen out of an old oil filter and ſome brake lines, I ſtarted aſsembling my Sefernday coſtume for this year. Sefernday only comes once every 54 weeks, and I would make this Sefernday a Sefernday to ſurely remember. The pepperoni races, ſauſage beatings, and notochord parades would ſtart in a few hours. I intended to attend in the moſt gariſh way poſsible.

Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! And laſtly, a giant opaleſcent gorget ſhaped like a geoduck.

My coſtume finiſhed, I looked like an overſized and overſtuffed hotdog: A hotdog tall as a man that rotated ſlowly. Why a hotdog? In honor of the Firſt Sefernday Feaſt of 1711 of courſe, where King Sefern lxxvi of Seferania ſerved an endleſs ſmörgåſbord of hotdogs of all ſhapes, ſizes, lengths, widths, heights, colors, and geometries.

My coſtume donned, lots of ſtimulants and depreſsants ſimultaneouſly ſwallowed, I daſhed out my door (opening it firſt, of courſe). Down the Bouillabaiſse Boulevard ſidewalk I ſauntered—honking and hooting, waving my arms wildly like a mad, mad hotdog is wont to do. I bumped; I gurgled. I even murped a little in my pants. My hooting was like a ruffled owl and my honking was like an unmuffled gooſe. (Or, was my hooting like the gooſe and my honking like the owl? One wonders.) But one thing was certain: Chloë Moretz’s bare feet would never be far from my mind.

Down the ſtreet I ſtumbled, bumping and gurgling and hooting and honking ſoftly, and ſometimes not ſo ſoftly, as I went. People ſtepped out of my way the ſecond they ſaw me. My Sefernday coſtume wobbled in an unſettling manner. Down the ſidewalk I bumped—up the ſidewalk I gurgled—toſsing Sefernday treats to all the tots, tater-tots, and twelve-year-olds who croſsed my path. If only goats had fit in my pockets, I would have toſsed them out too.

Moſt people fled from my hotdoggy form, but ſome ſtood ſtill and watched me curiouſly. I was, as always, quite the ſpectacle! Thoſe who ſtood firm and refuſed to flee got the moſt treats—right in the face! I ſtarted doing cartwheels. My Sefernday treats ſpilled from my pockets: A graceful parabolic arc of flying ſweets, ſnacks, potatoes, and onions. Leſs fled now; moſt followed behind me (at a ſafe diſtance) to vacuum up all the candies with their eating-ſnouts, leſt any owls come along and ſnatch up all the onions for themſelves. My cartwheels ſtopped ſuddenly when I ſmaſhed into a mailbox and landed noſe-firſt on the pavement.

The mailbox preſented a formidable obſtacle, but I had a ſolution. I had a ſolution indeed. My ſolution?

In place, I ſpun like a top.

More objects, ſome actually edible, flew from my pockets in all directions. While ſpinning merrily, my ſefernial exhortations continued unabated: Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk!

As I ſpun, amidſt intenſe dizzineſs, I obſerved that the ſauſage beatings had commenced, and the conteſtants were lining up at the ſtarting line for the pepperoni races, ſticks of pepperoni at the ready. I had no ſauſages to beat (nor any pepperoni to race), but I ſtill looked like an overſized, overſtuffed ſauſage, which made me as antſy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. And then my ithyphallic gorget came looſe and clattered to the ſidewalk. I kept ſpinning deſpite my embarraſsment. Another piece of my Sefernday coſtume, a bonnet ſhaped like cow udders, fell off. Now I looked even leſs like a man-ſized hotdog, but one thing was ſtill certain: Thankfully, my codpiece was ſtill in place.

And I had to pee. I looked around in riſing urgency. Was I about to be trampled by the notochord parades? I ran.

I ran.

Honk! Honk, honk, honk!

I ran.

I ſkidded to a ſtop a few hundred ſmoots (plus one noſe hair) down the ſtreet. There before me was a life-ſized ſtatue of King Sefern lxxvi. I ſqueeorled, my eyes bulging ſlug-like from my ſkull. The hollow eyes of the ſeven-foot-tall plaſtic ſtatue ſtared down at me balefully; its rictus grin ſneered at me with equally ſiniſter intent. “Where’s your god now?” ſilently hung in the air. My addled mind nearly leapt from the brain which barely contained it. I ſqueeorled again and hurtled back in the other direction in a blind, eyeleſs panic. At leaſt one thing was looking up: I didn’t have to pee anymore.

My bumping, my gurgling, and even my ſhrieking and babbling never ceaſed as I ran. The ongoing drug-fueled party in Wernicke’s area was ſure to keep the whole neighborhood entertained for another hour or ſix, as I careened up and down the ſtreet vociferouſly ſqueeorling and hooter-honking like a crazed gooſe that juſt ate the laſt of the omniſcient Owl Gods, feathers and all. Then, realizing I was about to be accoſted by a ſix-foot-tall gnome–ſquirrel (Where did he come from!?), I got back up on my toes and ran in a new direction. Oh, how I ran.

Honk! Honk, honk, honk!

I ran.

I ſlid into the goatburping park on Shoehorner Street like a bat out of helliſh northern California. The goatburping park gardens were ſtill in full bloom, deſpite the ſeaſon: The goatburping park gardener, Hortenſe P. Baumgartner, had ſeen to that. I didn’t venture to gueſs how he tortured all the flowers into remaining in bloom well into October, but one thing was ſtill certain: Chloë Moretz’s feet were nothing but a diſtraction now. Frantically I dove into the neareſt flower bed, knowing this would conceal me from the vengeful Owl Gods that were in mad purſuit of me ſince I had ſtolen all their mice. But the flowers were angry and vengeful too—very, very angry—and they aſsaulted me with their petals and ſtems even harder than laſt time. I defended myſelf as beſt I could (which was rather poorly). Leaves and petals flew everywhere, owls hooted and honked, and an angry, vengeful Hortenſe P. Baumgartner came running, curſing and ſwearing and ſwinging an overſized, multipronged trowel over his head.

Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot, hoot! Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot, hoot! Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot, hoot! Hoot, hoot! Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot, hoot! Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot! Hoot! Hoot, hoot, hoot!

I ran.

It was turning out to be ſuch a hortenſical Sefernday that it could even make a whore tenſe.

There was only one thing left for me to do. Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk! Honk, honk, honk! Honk, honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!!

I arrived back in my palatial abode moſtly uninjured, except for bleeding to death on my front doorſtep. Turning my Sefernday coſtume inſide-out, I realized: Halloween is next week and I have the perfect coſtume!

[Feetnote: I call it my “roolf” becauſe it’s oppoſite my floor and “floor” ſpelled backwards is “roolf.”]