A turtle extended its neck and quacked
Resisted on April 23, 2023.
After last weeks’ brevified adventure, in which I was being six-foot-three for the entire span of it, this week proved to be nearly as paradoxically and quizzically breft. Orthogonal to my understanding of kerfrumptid dynamics and psychogrulian carpathiometrics, the week wore on and on, sometimes wearing pants and sometimes not, for seven whole days—but four of them were compressed into two, so the week was only three days in length (and two in width).
How tall the week would be remained to be revealed. I assumed it would only be a day tall, but then I remembered week №16 of 1999. I shuddered. Some weeks were taller than others. And that week… Some weeks were so tall they could even peer in your fourth-floor windows! Some could even see through your window blinds and privacy curtains and even walls! Some could even…!
Becasue slapped me. I simmered down and got back to blogging.
Gorplious predilections aside, I predicted that this short, plump week foretold something foreboding, something ungruliar, and most likely something shaped like a circus clown who ate too many lightbulbs before being unceremoniously stuffed, along with a dozen other clowns of similar unusual morphology, into a car half the length of a Volkswagen (but the width of a Ford pickup and the height of a grasshopper). What my prediction foretold, what it forecast and prognosticated, I had nary a clue, but you made it to the end of this paragraph, so you probably don’t either.
The one thing assured was it would involve clowns.
I started meeping nervously—softly at first, but then more urgently as I ruminated on the clownish matter. My coulrophobia nearly got the best of me, but Becasue slapped me again. I simmered down and got back to blogging.
Another prediction flashed across my axons: Deep in the floating forests of Lake Athabasca, a turtle extended its neck and quacked. One day, a turtle farmer would snare this reptile in a turtle trap and breed millions upon millions of turtlings from the quacking little beast. A fertile turtle she would prove to be, and she would be the mother of nations (of turtles). The world would fill with turtles. They would devour everything, albeit so slowly none would notice until it was too late. And then the world would really be… turtles all the way down.
But today, this turtle floated serenely alongside a stand of inflatable pine trees and a patch of water-briars. And it quacked softly.
On Tuewednesday, at 3:03 a.m., when it was pitch black, my pet kerfrumpt was eaten by a grue. But kerfrumpts are highly indigestible—especially their eating snouts. And immortal. So, she soon gnawed her way to freedom, ate the grue herself, and returned to me, brilling and queeging triumphantly. The tables turned on that grue! I gave thanks to the Owl Gods for her safe return and sacrificed 57,600 field mice on the strigine altar in my basement. As part of this ritual, I chugged 1,500 mℓ of cold turkey juice in ≤ 15 seconds. No one understood the arcane and obscurantist rites of the Owl Gods. Except me. And to be quite openly honest—to be frank, even though my name is Surely—not even I understand all the ins and outs of making imprecations and execrations to the vaunted Owl Gods. Few do. Most don’t even pray to the Owls anymore. And those who do usually live in mental hospitals.
To conclude the ritual, I began hooting madly, but got slapped again. I simmered down and got back to blogging.
On Thurfriday, I attempted to revivify the Darndersketch but realized instead I should have revoovifooved the Doonderpoot instead. Stupid me. My yesteryear quest for the Nurklestone had been embarrassingly unsuccessful, but this fuggeraboogue made that one look like a horse-smashing success. This ’boogue left me not only embarrassed, shocked, appalled, but doubt-laden and grief-stricken too. I was beside myself with grief and I didn’t even need to stand next to my mirror this time. (But I could use it to go gurning.)
To save a step, I just slapped myself this time. I simmered down and got back to blogging.
In my front yard, a trio of feral geese challenged each other over the last slice of bread I had tossed to them. (The backyard geese had been carted off to the butcher shop.) They honked. They hissed. They waggled their necks and flapped their wings and stomped their feet. One tried to scratch obscene curses into the dirt with his webbed foot, but geese can’t read, so the message fell on deaf ears. (Geese don’t have much in the way of ears, either.)
One furious goose lunged at the second and the third lunged at the first. The battle was joined. A flurry of feathers ensued as the rabid waterfowl honked and spat and gurgled and, now, cursed aloud at each other. They fought like fiends—as if possessed by anserine demons. Indeed, they fought like Walmart employees battling over the last forlorn slice of free pizza sitting on a greasy plate in the break room. When it was over, the ground was strewn with feathers, blood, gore, and severed beaks. None survived. Not even Mr. Rogers in a blood-stained sweater.
With the Three Goose War at an end, I turned my attention to a more pressing matter (besides not getting slapped in the face again). A vegetative catastrophe had broken out in my kitchen today and I was still trying to clean it up. My leeks were leaking but I had been too busy appeasing my peas, beating my beets, and garrotting my carrots to notice at first. Having encumbered my cucumbers (and flobcumbers) with fixing the leek leaks, I went off to jive with my chives. “Let us, lettuce,” I then entreated my leafy-headed friends, “Let us now potate our potatoes.”
And then I jammed a 50 kΩ resistor up my nose and a 50 µF capacitor in each ear.