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Up to my ass in alligators

Endangered on August 7, 2022.

This week, a sturgid blurmph horked a dongle and cifrectedly transpootered, which caused me no end of ungrulious borf grief, so I had to diligently fnord-gorp the dongly burples, carefully mizzen a postwargle, and afterward shunt a burpcore anagnost all the dingly flarvens and flarven cooters. Dealing with the aftermath of this cifrected dilemma necessitated a shopping trip out of town—not just to the next town, mind you, but to a town three towns over. Such a journey may not seem like a big deal to anyone who owns an automobile that actually has four whole wheels and two whole axles, but my Trabi just wasn’t up to the challenge this week. I briefly pondered expropriating a bicycle from the nearest bike rack, but then remembered my last adventure on a bicycle was responsible for my brief stint as a hood ornament, followed by many stitches, sutures, splints, and stents. So this time I thought better of pedaling myself anywhere. I put my bolt cutters away and began to ponder other options. It looked like I would be traveling three towns over on foot. On my own absurdly clownish feet.

After much indignant huffery and puffery, I resigned myself to taking on this task and donned my usual traveling outfit: Three asshats, a fez, a bolo tie wrapped around a stick of pepperoni, and underneath it all, a surprisingly large amount of layered clothing for this 103 °F summer day. And so off I went, bumbling doofussily, spinning occasionally, and trying not to trip over my own clown shoes, down the only road out of town—which, as you all know, is full of alligators.

The road had no name, since every time they tried to put up a road sign, the hapless city worker was eaten by alligators. The road was also unpaved, because the alligators ate the construction crews, too. In fact, the “road” looked more like a fully submerged swamp—full of alligators.

I set out at precisely 8:18 in the morning.

Up to my ass in alligators, I decided to turn back. I happen to like my voluminous buttocks and didn’t want it to get bit off (or anything else it was connected to.)

As I fled, I realized I needed to lose some weight—and fast, lest I never outrun the alligators. I stripped off my numerous layers of socks and flung my asshats and fez off to the side of the road. Now a whole sixteen pounds lighter—and wearing nothing more than my pepperoni and bolo—I was sleek and aerodynamic enough to outrun the lot of them. And oh, how I ran. The alligators could not keep up with my shrieking, naked form, and gave up the chase.

All those flying asshats and socks confused the alligators too, I surmised. I then tried the other road out of town (there are actually two—I lied). This one was entirely free of alligators and also resembled an untamed swamp more than an actual road, but it presented a worse problem: Crocodiles. Soon up to my crotch in crocodiles, I again decided to turn back. I was equally as fond of my voluminous crotch as I was my buttocks! (And Jada Fire’s!)

The crocodiles could not keep up with my shrieking, naked form either.

This journey across three towns simply to buy nothing more than a sack of fresh horsefeathers was not turning out well. I looked anxiously at my wristwatch—I was all out of roads out of town, and I was almost out of time: If I didn’t return to the safety of my palatial abode by 8:18 p.m., my persistent and recurrent cynocephaly would set in. Pig-headed I may be, but dog-headed is something I try to assiduously avoid being, if I can. So, as the clock struck 7:17 p.m., before it could strike me in the head for being such a big pantywaist, I turned back again.

Finding myself suddenly up to my eyeballs in aye-ayes, I stopped to ask… where the hecklegroober did all these aye-ayes come from? No answer was forthcoming. No one else was around, and the Owl Gods were silent—except Fate, tittering maliciously behind a tree, enjoying every moment of my ordeal.

Alligators and crocodiles infesting my town’s fetid swamps? This I could understand (even if the herpetologists couldn’t). Along with the capybaras, needle-snakes, hoop-snakes, glorpf-snakes, dugongs, and budongs that had migrated into my town in the last decade, it made sense. A certain kind of sense—a madman’s sense, one might say—but a certain kind of sense nonetheless. But what now attracted all these lemurs? Did the extirpation of the squirrel population open up an evolutionary niche for such equally amusing creatures? Was it global warming? Was it global narming? Was it Mayor Rhoodie’s “free-range petting zoo” project? The question demanded answers, and I—always an excellent surmiser—got to surmisin’ up a storm at once.

The storm turned out to be a light drizzle. “The Girl from Petaluma” began running in an unending loop in my mind, like a phone call perpetually on hold. My dog-headedness appeared to be setting in earlier than expected. I groaned frustratedly, sunk down on my haunches in resignation, and let the aye-ayes swarm over me. At least I would leave a beautiful corpse.

Friday arrived in all its deep-fried glory. The Sun was rising, threatening to broil us all under its relentless death rays. Birds were chirping and bursting into flames. Cooked geese were falling from the sky. It was only 5:15 a.m., but it was already 106 °F. People were frying eggs on the pavement. Dogs and cats were sunbathing together. It was going to be a scorcher all right.

I had managed to drag my beautiful corpse back to my palatial abode. Apparently, in my cynocephalous state, I am quite the carnivore, and dogs find aye-ayes to be quite tasty. There are no more aye-ayes in my town now.

I stumbled into my house, flung my heavy corpse down in the doorway, and made my way to my kitchen to fix myself a glass of iced potato juice. I would deal with stitching my corpse back on later. Right now I wanted nothing more than to throw back a tall, refreshing glass of potato juice, throw myself down into my Hopeless Slack-Ass® recliner, and perhaps throw an “I’m not dead!” party with my lawn gnomes.

I reclined, ass slack, and soon dozed off into a peaceful slumber. Time, relentless taskmaster that it is, moved forward, and eventually I awoke. It was… 9:19 a.m.  I yerked. I wasn’t alone.

I now found myself up to my supernumerary nipple in wizzle-nipfs. I leapt from my easy chair and hit the ceiling, shrieking and babbling like a glorpf-snake that just found itself out-slithered by a flock of wizzle-nipfs—which wasn’t far off, since I hadn’t been able to slither straight since that urinal-caking accident in the Spend-O-Mart men’s room last month.

I clung to the ceiling and waited. The wizzle-nipfs clung to the floor and waited. I waited. They waited. My ceiling clock, inches away, hooted out 10 a.m., then 11, then 12. Time, never on my side before, suddenly was. With nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do, I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

It also reminded me only too well of how, over a century ago, General Winfield Scott (“Old Fuss And Feathers”) lost the Whig nomination for U.S. President to Zachary Taylor (“Old Rough And Ready”). But the here-and-now wasn’t over a century ago, it was here… and now.

“Gorkle! Gorkle!” I burbled. “Gorkle! Gorrrkle!”

General Omar Bradley called it the “wrong war, at the wrong place, in the wrong time, and with the wrong enemy.” But the Grand Pnårpissimo called it “magically delicious.”

An insidious flobcumber casserole, with fried moose synapse topped with odorous stinkberries, was what was for dinner last night. After retching and vomiting for seven minutes and seventeen seconds, I retracted my “magically delicious” assertion and dug in. Then I spent seven hours glued to my porcelain throne regretting I ever picked those stinkberries.

Then Sunday arrived, I flushed, the sewer backed up, and I retched and vomited some more. The thing that finally drove me from the bathroom was the Sun’s deadly rays blazing through the window, trying to roast me alive.

I had flushed sixteen tons, and what did I get? Another day older and deeper in even more poop.

It’s 108 °F out today, but then I switched to Celsius so I had to put my jacket on. Iced potato juice in hand and puffy winter jacket wrapped around my corpse like a big, black, puffy boa constrictor, I went to work blogging up a storm…

[Feetnote: What happened to the wizzle-nipfs, you ask? Apparently, when doing my best Spiderman impression, I am quite the nipfivore, and Spiderman finds wizzle-nipfs to be quite tasty. There are again no more wizzle-nipfs in my town.]