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A stubby little short week

Trolloped around on April 24, 2022.

On M’nday, I wobbled, Weeble-like, throughout most of the day. Having never actually rose from bed at any point on M’nday, I was quite shocked at how I was able to wobble at all—after all, a doofus-shaped, goat-faced, pig-nosed, six-foot-tall man–squirrel lying supine isn’t wont to wobble much, Weeble-like or otherwise. That is, he won’t wobble—unless pushed. (Humpty Dumpty was pushed but they don’t want you to know this!) I took to the Internet to argue these point first with myself and then anyone else who would listen. Eventually someone replied that I had confused my own caprine form with a tub filled with Jello, which can wobble, Weeble-like or otherwise, quite easily, even while supine, so I shut up and slunk off. I spent the remainder of M’nday fantasizing about making necklaces out of squirrel neckbones.

On T’sday, I learned that Veesey-Koosey’s Geesey-Goosey Pub was having a special on roasted, roosted goose this week. I also learned there were thirty-seven different ways to spell the noise a cow makes, but only seven acceptable ways to spell the noises of the house cat. I objected heartily to this claim, tweeting madly that it was baseless, groundless, wholly without evidence, and entirely not backed up by any facts, nor even anything resembling facts. Eventually someone replied that I had made up these claims myself, which I couldn’t refute, so I shut up and slunk off. I spent the remainder of T’sday fantasizing about making necklaces out of goose neckbones.

On W’sday, I realized that all the weekdays this week were missing some letters. Being a few letters short of a full alphabet myself, I wasn’t going to do anything about it, however. I would just wait and see what next week would bring. New weeks always bring new, horrible things. Later, I contemplated waddling down to Veesey-Koosey’s for dinner, but I’d heard through the gravepine that unless I liked roasted goose that tasted like rancid grease, I had best pass on this week’s special. Since I only liked my grease fresh, and fresh-squeezed from ripe sticks of pepperoni, I indeed decided against rancid-greased, roasted-roosted goose for dinner. I pulled another stick of pepperoni down, peeled it, and ate it. I spent the remainder of W’sday fantasizing about making necklaces out of pepperoni neckbones.

On Fr’day, the horse that fell on my head last week went trotting off once and for all. I went galloping after it. The Cantonese Canting Gnomes trolloped after both of us, canting as they cantered. “I can’t stand this anymore!” I shouted as I dove back into my hidey-hole. The horse kept trotting and the Canting Gnomes kept canting. Having insufficient room to keep galloping myself, I started spinning in circles until I collapsed like a dented top. I spent the remainder of Fr’day collapsed like a dented top.

On Sa’day, I noshed on some tea and crumpets. This was followed by tea and trumpets, then tea and strumpets. I topped it all off with some tea and trollops. (Not, alas, scalloped trollops.) I also learned the perpetual grease fire on Terwilliger Street had been extinguished at last, in what the local newspaper described as a “sudden fury of honking and feathers not seen since Phineas Dalhousie’s Amalgamated Horn & Trumpet Co. had been firebombed by anarchists in 1920.” The article then went on to recap the lengthy and storied history of the perpetual grease fire (which was in fact started by anarchists in 1919 when they firebombed a French fry refinery). It concluded with a ham-fisted product placement for Veesey-Koosey’s specials this week. I peeled another stick of pepperoni and spent the remainder of Sa’day wondering where all these apostrophes were coming from.

On Su’day, I realized that Th’day had gone missing this week. (And it was missing some letters too.) The week was short and stubby—like Chloë Moretz’s toes. I also realized that my perpetual pepperoni diet was getting to me: Yesterday, while stuffing my face with wads and wads of the delicious red discs, I apparently hallucinated that I was in fact eating crumpets, trumpets, strumpets, and trollops. “That’s not right,” I murmured to myself. “My hallucinations are usually far less British.” I then realized that my buttocks was stuck in the tachocline again, that gorgothine layer of the hideous Sun that entraps me occasionally, only to belch me out at some predetermined yet unknowable time in the future. I spent the remainder of Su’day inventing new facts about animal noises.