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On any given day

Plotted and schemed on August 21, 2022.

On Tuesday, the power went out so I tore the heads off my new neighbor’s lawn ornaments (to pass the time).

On Monday, the power came back on, which made me realize that those closed timelike curves were still wrapped about my living room.

On Tuesday again, I had a doctor’s appointment to have my head examined. I was supposed to see a psychiatrist but they accidentally sent me to the iatrogenics department. I came home with the wrong leg cut off and a scalpel sewn into my scalp.

On Wednesday, I went gongoozling down at the seaport. A new dirigible, the Lolo Ferrari, had just been christened. She was another submersible dirigible, so when I finally decided to take that trip to Finland, I would be able to travel by air and by sea at the same time.

On Thursday, I realized my home was still infested with closed timelike curves. They were hiding in the cracks in the wall, laying their eggs behind my wainscoting, and generally making a paradoxical mess of things. Time would be all loopy until I eradicated them. I called another exterminator. He would arrive yesterday.

On Friday, I was reminded why fireworks are banned at the seaport—and why they really shouldn’t make dirigibles using hydrogen anymore.

On Thursday, I used both my mouse and touchpad at the same time to see which one would win out. Up and down, up and down, my little pointer went until it had a nervous breakdown. Who won? Turns out, the gnomes did. They demanded I get back to work or I would be fired on the spot. I didn’t even known I worked for the gnomes. I didn’t even know I had a job right now.

On Friday, I installed a mouse jiggler so the gnomes would think I was working hard. Those gnomes are a gullible lot.

On Saturday, I tried to rescue a moth floating in a puddle. But then I remembered that in 1870, a similarly rescued moth made its way to the closet of Napoléon III, where it ate his favorite cravat. In a meeting with the German ambassador later that day, the angry and sans-cravat French emperor decided to take it out on the befuddled man, and the rest is the history of the Franco–Prussian War. So instead I squished that moth.

On Sunday, I found out what happens when one eats thousands of avocado seeds instead of the edible portion of the avocado.

On Saturday, time didn’t run backwards anymore, but I there was something else important that happened, which I forgot to mention earlier. And now I forgot it again… because you befuddled me. I hope you’re happy.

On Friday, I learned that my latest scientific paper, “Paralleling the Trapezoid: Squaring the Circle for the 21st Century,” had been accepted by the most prestigious journal in mathematics. My ultracrepidarianism had still not caught up with me.

On Wednesday, a psychic, psychopathic pitcher plant tried to eat me. Then I was assaulted by a Psychlo-Catrist.

On Tuesday, time kept not running backwards. Or… did it?

On Monday, it kept going and going, faster and faster.

On Sunday, I decided to just shred all my calendars and smash all my clocks. Who even cares what day of the week it is anymore? Who even cares about time? It’s all the same really, backwards, forwards, and sideways. I went back to eating more boxes of Cheez-Its and bags of Cheetos.

On Monday, I insisted I could maintain non-simulatory proof about all extreptionary plans, no matter how verandous, carbunculate, or pear-shaped they were. While winnowing about, on my sinews, fluttering about, on my buttocks, I made this persistent insistence, until the minnows desisted in resisting my consistent assistance. Gurning while winnowing, churning my butter hourly and winnowing my flour dourly, I assisted them all into a frying pan, and ate them.

On Tuesday, my paper shredder got stuck in a loop and puked all over the floor. My tyrannical calendar was back in charge.

On Wednesday, I sold a bundle of confetti on eBay.

On Thursday, someone broke into all my online accounts, drained my bank accounts, drained my garden hoses, stole all my bitcoin, and stole all my garden gnomes. I probably should have used a better paper shredder to make that confetti.

On Wednesday (How’d we get back to Wednesday again? Best not to ask!), I went lumbering through life like some great polyester dinosaur. Some say that old leisure suit had gone the way of disco, just like dinosaurs had gone the way of the dodo, but I didn’t care. And more importantly, had anything gone the way of the disco-dancing dodo? No one could answer that question.

On Thursday, I loaded sixteen tons, and what did I get? Another day older and deeper in alligators. I hope you’re happy!

On Friday, I had more fish for dinner—a lumpfish shaped like Andrea Dworkin.

On Saturday, an emergency alert went out for us to all shelter in place because a trapezoidal maniac was on the loose at the local costermongery. I was worried he would use my mathematics paper as some kind of manifesto to justify his lunacy, but I was relieved when it turned out he was only turning all the avocados inside-out and eating their seeds.

On Sunday, I happened to glance at a map of the United Spates and learned something new and surprising. Arkansas?!” I blinked, unbelieving. “There’s an R. Kansas now?!”

On Monday, I proposed we rename the states surrounding Kansas and Arkansas to Eskansas, Teekansas, Yukansas, and Veekansas. Sucks to be you, Missouri! Up yours, Oklahoma! Out of time, Nebraska! Ohh-high-ohh ha-wahh-yee, Iowa!

On Tuesday, I wrote another letter to President Piggy-Man proposing that Kansass, Arkansass, Texass, and other ass-containing states be excluded from the new union after 2024. He did not write back.

On Wednesday, I woke up with a bad case of dipygus, so it was back to the doctor for me. This time, they sent me to the right department, and the pygiatrists only cut off the extra buttocks I had developed. I left the hospital with both legs intact and a scalp with no embedded scalpels. And now I had a new, genuine leather asshat!

On Thursday, I stumbled upon Hell’s waiting room. It smelled like a fish died and all the other fish sent flowers—which was better than a trunk full of decomposing squirrels.

On Friday, the Secret Service paid me a visit. They accused me of threatening to assassinate President Piggy-Man. I insisted I was merely advocating a national pygectomy, but they remained unconvinced. They said no sane man would write a letter with that much “ass” in it, so to what other conclusion could they come? Anastrophe had once again struck. Struck it had.

On Saturday, Mayor Rhoodie formally announced his reelection bid with a speech about a new traffic-calming initiative: Converting the town’s dead-ends and cul-de-sacs to one-way streets. This wasn’t quite as dubious as Petyr Baelish as mayor of Baltimore, but it was close.

On Sunday, I was mortified to learn that a cotton duck is not, in fact, a species of cotton-eating anatid, nor is it a duck made out of cotton. This wasn’t quite as silly as Captain Picard getting into a knife fight with a vampire, but it was close.

On Monday, they fished the remnants of the Lolo Ferrari out of the harbor. The harbor master vowed they would rebuild her—she would float again. They also banned Pnårps from within 500′ of the harbor. I was running out of places I could fire firecrackers from my asscrack!

On Tuesday, I regretted eating those breaded minnows the night before. It wasn’t just my paper shredder that vomited that day.

On Wednesday, I had cravings for more fish. I can never get enough fish in my mouth, and Wednesday was one of those days. Perhaps it is because of my own curiously fish-like mouth. Or it’s a reaction to the fish pills my doctor prescribed to me for my dipygus. Regardless—irregardless, some might say (although those people are idiots)—I wanted fish. Off to the Spend-O-Mart again.

On Thursday, I confused Tennessee Williams and Tennessee Ernie Ford. It wasn’t as embarrassing as that Tennessee Williams vs. Indiana Jones mix-up, and since I drove a Trabant, not a Ford, in the end, it didn’t really matter. The sixteen tons of streetcar parts sat on my front lawn, waiting. Waiting. Waiting for the gnomes to attack.

On Friday, when I told the Secret Service agent that my lumpfish looked like Andrea Dworkin, he decided I was just a harmless doofus and left. (I think his name was Borb.)

On Saturday, I rode up and down Bouillabaisse Boulevard on my new epicycle. (Those fish didn’t need it anymore.) But, much to my chagrin, I ended up just going around in circles.

And finally on Sunday, I did this. I hope you’re happy!