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An adventure in Dingleberry–Dumpsterism

Dumped and stirred on November 28, 2021.

Whereas I create enormous amounts of trash on a daily basis, I desire to be the man who uses the absolute fewest number of trash bags who has ever walked to and fro on doG’s green Earth. To that end, this week, I once again poured all of my trash from the bag into the magical neighborhood trashcan, carefully folded the increasingly tattered bag until it fit in my wallet, slipped it into my shoe (who keeps a trash bag in their wallet?), and returned home with it. I had owned this particular trash bag since 2015 and I had no plans to replace it anytime soon.

The revolting Dingleberry–Hampsterists were still encamped across the street; with the Schmarnocks flowers all gone by now, there was nothing that would dislodge them. They were there to stay. I waded out into the foot-deep mire of horse mucus in my back yard, pair of monoculars in hand, climbed one of my galumph trees, and observed the Hampsterist revolutionaries from this safe distance.

My beady, bird-like eyes scanned their encampment, over there across the way. It was then that I saw a dumpster. It was empty. It was green. And I knew at once what nefarious plan the Hampsterists had hatched now. My eyes darted up the street to where our preternatural community trashcan sat, happily swallowing up whatever trash we poured into it with no signs of filling up.

If President Piggy-Man can get away with stealing all the mailboxes and ballot boxes, certainly the wily Hampsterists could pull off the theft of a single communal trashcan with no difficulty!

There was only one thing to do. “It seemed like a good idea at the time” would once again be the overarching theme of my week. I clambered down from the warty galumph tree, fetched the necessary implements of destruction and deflagration from my shed, and made my way across Bouillabaisse Boulevard. Hamsters were everywhere—a mivulating mass of furry fury—but they ignored me. They scurried across the lawn, scampered to and fro down the sidewalk, poured out the windows of the house (for it is at long-dead Mr. Van der Woobie’s house that our scene lies), and scuttled back in through the front door keyhole. But none heeded my approach. None fled before me. None were anything but blithe, nonchalant. None knew what I was about to do.

I reached the dumpster. I beady-eyed it grimly. It was still empty. It was still green. I tried to set it on fire. But it was empty (and green) and metal doesn’t burn. I tried again but only succeeded in setting my knuckle hair on fire. I tried a third time and set more of myself ablaze. My now smooth, hairless crests fallen to an all-time low, I howled in frustration and slunk back across the street to my own palatial abode. Deeper thought would have to be manhandled into this plan for it to work. I glanced at my ceiling clock and then withdrew to my third-floor after-bedroom to ensconce myself in planning my second strike.

Hours later, still firmly ensconced, now with several scones ensconced in my gullet, I had a revelation: Somehow, last week’s sloths and koalas still played a role in all this, but I couldn’t put my finger on how. And Nicki Minaj’s feet still kept popping into my mind. Half-formed, distracting, and furciferous thoughts like these only served to further my hopes that Dingleberry–Hampsterism would ultimately be defeated—not by the bloated, phalliyonic flowers crowding my back yard last week, as they had all melted back into the horse mucus from whence they came—but by the bloated, bursiform Phillip Norbert Årp now sitting ensconced in his third-floor after-bedroom with seventeen scones ensconced in his gullet.

If I couldn’t single-handedly save the world from global smarming, no one could. If I couldn’t single-handedly save the world from the upcoming COVID-21 and COVID-22, no one could. And if I couldn’t single-handedly save the world from Dingleberry–Hampsterism, no one could.

“Cydippids!” I swore mightily. The gnomes thought I sneezed. My kerfrumpt thought I queefed. Man, I had a lot of savin’ to do this week!

Wait… gnomes? “Wait… gnomes!?” I gasped aghast and agug. My heart did the fandango with my aorta. Lithe porcupines began slithering down my veins. “But all my garden gnomes are crushed into mushrooms now! They’re all crushed mush!” They had been magically changed into mushrooms by my scantily-clad, barefoot, winged fairy queen back in 2018. And then I had crushed them flat (crush, crush, crush!). I had been sure of it. At least for three antedeludian years, I had been sure. So where did these gnomes come from right now? And how dare they do any thinking in my presence, let alone having such thoughts about my random spoonerings and malappropriate exclamations?

Clearly more in-depth planning was called for. I reached for my №2 pencil, a claphine little hexagonal tool painted the same color as my toenails, and started scribbling on the after-bedroom walls. I scribbled and scribbled. My pencil could barely keep up.

Enough hours later that I could justifiably write “days later” here, I was done. My masterpiece of planning—my master plan, a supervillian might call it, if I were a supervillian, which I wasn’t, at least not yet, not until I destroyed all the Dingleberry–Hampsterists and replaced them with my army of smashed garden gnomes, which I hoped would happen today, but might take a few more days of in-depth planning and wall-scribbling—was complete. (And fortunately so was that sentence.) Monday had rolled into Tuesday, which had sprinted to Wednesday, which had thanksgivingly somersaulted into Thursday. I had finally reached the bottom-most, right-most corner of the last blank wall in my third-floor after-bedroom, and it was then that my finest №2 pencil—already warn down to a stubby nub—broke. The Universe was conspiring against me in so many ways: By taking away my scribbling space and my pencil at the same time (and my kerncoorgle and my kunecargle moments before), It clearly signaled to me that it was time to put down the pencil (the broken one), open the window, and leap out.

Thanksgiving was canceled.

I landed in a foot-deep pool of congealing horse mucus and wilted, shredded Schmarnocks flower parts. Wallowing in my embarrassment, floating on my back in a pool of yellow-green goo amongst flower parts (and flower pots), I remembered: Actually, my garden gnomes had all been shattered in an apoplectic rage in July, but then were surreptitiously glued back together by chameleons a week later. Whatever my scantily-clad, barefoot, winged fairy queen did back in 2018 had been undone afterward. Then redone by me. Then undone by colorshifting, shapeshifting reptiles. I was now sure of one more thing: I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

I sighed, my nose grim. The cabal of Dingleberry–Hampsterist insurrectionists would prevail, it seemed. The bottomless community trashcan would mysteriously disappear and be replaced with a soulless, colorless, green dumpster. I would sink into a pool of horse mucus and dead Schmarnocks flowers and, once it enveloped me and solidified completely, my body would never be found. Perhaps once I was no longer around to feed her rodent butts and horse gonads, my scaly ol’ kerfrumpt would vacuum up all the hamsters (and their dingleberries). Or perhaps something else even more outré and effungible would happen after I departed doG’s yellow-green Earth.

I just couldn’t be sure anymore. I wasn’t even sure how unsure I was. I sank, my nostrils bubbling lightly. I clutched the empty, carefully folded trash bag in my shoe. At least I still had that. No one could take that away from me. Thursday gave thanks and stumbled drunkenly into Friday, and I—mired in a foot-deep pool of hardening horse mucus—died.