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With a ploot, ploot, ploot!

Born on November 6, 2022.

“Squée! Squée! Smée, smée, smée!”

“A quïrk? Aquïrk and askew? Pfhoo! Foo, few, flue! A blue smoo!”

“Meep… mıppy, mørp!”

And thusly aforementioned intoned, this yere’s Sefernday celebratootery commenced raggoöusly.

The sefernial juices were flowing ahore. I was on a rool. A real, real rool.

Blurgh mein dorf fnetters and a wheeple wıpple whopple more dongfoopity blorg blorg blorg, a lot of a little of gnarly gnorly a-diddle, my fister-baster pardiddlies. A rangorn lollicoboxing norble-festering didwait a didthwaite more, and a’ snarpening the dost tiddlies more venglous, less harduous, and evenmore sundrilicity bestoxed upon the fornmouth ablong: Gorplies and plorples aboode.

This year’s Seferndaisical festivalories were adornmouth patterfraternaling askivver the pepperoni races, and—wunce the blurgle!—torpfed scroobled at the bred norgmit, the bongwhit, and the dingle-fleep, sleet shooting, whack-a-duck (née whack-a-lion ere 1934), and frenglous duckmouth askivver tambeen.

« À queef de lœrp de langloupe? » a man–squirrel once asked askance—in Fronch. I resplonded resplendently, by pushing my frongles depthy into the burpdorth goatmeaty scorbeys until shelterbelter-forntaster went agoogly. « Grurgelle ça va neïphe? »

The Great Fishpile had rottened down à a Lesser Fish Slimepuddle—all scaly é smelly è slippery ê schlurply. My unwelcome mat was still hopelessly trapped beneath the virous agroogeity. And, all sefernial shrieking, shrecking, and babbling aside, I was now a grandpapårp!

Ficus for Congress was polling at a healthy 49.25¾%, a blanch of old cootersmoots were agrongling for the other smeadidates, and I had more pepperoni than a pare of skivvernivvers could shake their flivver-nuggles at. That rangorn lollicoboxing norble-festering didwait comptinued to borgle and bogle enfliverously, meepishly even, until the gargle gnarly gnorly went brøderbunding frontwerds and backwurds until the poop chute pooped out another glistening fnord—soft, and steamingly lithely.

Sefernday has sempiternally been my favorite holiday. And esto temp it wood receif littul elucidatoriation. And esto temp I was a grandpapårp.

“Spoo a ‘spoo poo’!” Becasue reminded me. I clarked an answer back—on the bad side of an em-dash—and then fröepped to dearth in my bath turb.

Grårp norp a pibbly dorp, flarg a ghorst, a ghast, and some nigh-moobled oatmeal cookies. Gnomes, knomes, and wheedling, needling blomes. Alibisterous, mephisterous, and even giddeous hargle-dargles, th’all were, along the dornmouth afoot a mutt, a coot, and a doot-doot-doot.

[These actually are words—just not in the language we speak!]

Candy, cændy, and feet-shaped shoes poured down from everywhere. My mind went askivver, my eyes wall-eyed, and İ meeped and İ mipped and İ did another Pnårpy dance. (I tried to do a Pnárpy dance… alas that was too Fronch.)

Becasue wasn’t just a typo anymore: She was my salicious big little redheaded huzzey-muffet. Dessert was once again served, pink and fruity, and I dove in. Again my dudgeon went high but because Becasue was so enfliverious, it went low. High and low. Up and down. Down and up. And down I went again. (This didn’t sake any mense, and it hidn’t daft to.)

I choked & almost deathed. Suffering from mid-coital cataplexy, post-coital catalepsy, and even pan-coital cataleprosy, I deathed. Becasue sneerped mirthfully. Sefernday comptinued unabarged.

If the knomes were ascuterbooghting, they hould’ve chlortled horsedongily.

This entry is kurz but the week is lang: „Abgefickt!“

I xelebrated with as much gusto and glee, as mooch mirth and alabaster, as I could filibuster on such short, 54-week notice:

Well wiffle my buffles,

And squiffle my baffles,

And wiffle my buffles all day!

Well hiffle my huffles,

And riffle my raffles,

And bliffle my bloffles all the way!

I şang thiş Şefernial Şong şonorouşly. The whack-a-lion games went as well as could be expected. Only three players got eaten. The pepperoni races went better. Only three sticks of pepperoni got eaten. (I ate the remaindor aftermoors.) The sleet shooting was canceled when all the sleet melted due to global smarming.

Pnårp II was born on the Sefernday. Prårp was born on the Sefernday in 1995. And I was born at the beginning of the eunuchs epoch. But… ploot! Ploot, why not? Ploot!

A bare bear was born too: Bored, birthed on the bare bore, a boor with a boar. A Boer in Bayern bared it all, beared more, and birthed the silithicine creatures that haunt the caverns and grottoes acirc my town and need to die, die, die.

Becasue stepped barefoot on my head. I stepped barefoot on some flies. The flies stopped dancing.

This is how this entry ends, not with a bang, but with a ploot!

With a ploot!

A ploot!