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It doesn’t have to—but I always do

Needn’t on June 4, 2023.

We learned yestermonth that oppilation can lead to total external depilation. And this month we learn that self-abnegation can frequently lead to the even worse outcome of total internal enfeciation. The month is only four days old but sometimes I learn things fast. Sometimes things just smack me right in the face. And it really was an impactful experience, this impaction, but I would survive it. I always do.

I have radioactive spearmint plants growing in flower pots in my front yard. But such glowing flowerpottery is no more relevant to this tale of woe than is the zebra peeking out of my dishwasher (he replaced the porcupine) nor the barefooting mishap that took place on my roolf on World Milk Day.

It doesn’t make sense. And it doesn’t have to.

I took solace in but one thing: My recovery, this time around, wouldn’t be as difficult as recovering from that month in 1989 when I fasted from flushing my toilet. But it would be close. So there was that.

The zebra broke out of my dishwasher right then. I had to chase him down before he got into the spearmint. It took an entire twenty-mule team to capture the poor, squawking beast and jam him back into the dishwasher. But we did it, those twenty mules and I. I survived—with only a couple new hoof prints on my foreheads, plus a detached nostril. I survived it. I always do.

It doesn’t make sense. And it doesn’t have to.

I smiled wanly as I took solace in but one more thing: This costive go-’round with nonfecation wouldn’t be as difficult as that month in 1990 when I fasted from using my toilet. But it would be close. So… there was also that. There were many things in which to take solace.

There was enough blame to go ’round too, there was. I ascribed some of the blame to the derbfine and obolus men, those ominous spectres that haunt me whenever I forget to eat enough zebra steaks in a month. Again these men sat there, facelessly staring at me from their bus stop bench, both in their characteristic derbies (hats sometimes mistaken for fezzes or tasseled sombreros). They both wore their usual obelus-shaped cravats about their necks too, the sight of which set my nose hairs on edge and drove my kitchen zebra into another squawking tizzy-fit.

My own obelism has come to naught, the presence of these two revenant men taught me, so I decided to take up a new form of peripheral biblio-vandalism: Scribbling obvious, intuitive, but unproven mathematical theorems in the margins of all these tomes instead. It worked for Fermat. Perhaps it would work for me.

It never made any sense. And it never will.

I sat in my fnitchen, slurping pensively on my bowl of Maccabean macaroni & cheese. Becasue glared at me from across the table. I sheepishly kept slurping, kept sitting, and kept quiet. I would be in the doghouse again for sure—if I hadn’t stuffed it to the brim with actual dogs already. I would survive this. I always do.

My songluous mulpiciating and lubdicated salamandering had petered out—down to a dull roar (albeit a slippery one). Those old habits would soon be replaced with new ones: Operasmic hornvulating and paconic o’clockery. But for now, I had a bowl of pasta to finish guzzling. So I did.

It doesn’t make sense. And it doesn’t have to.

That open window next to my toilet had sure come in handy back in 1990. But those passers-by passing by below abruptly came to regret their choice to go passing by my window right then. I wonder if they still hold a grudge 33 years later. I know I would. I always do.

It doesn’t make sense. And it doesn’t have to.

I call it my “roolf” because it’s opposite my floor and “floor” spelled backwards is “roolf”! And it seemed to be a perfectly good place to store all those caltrops—until that fateful World Milk Day.

Maccabean macaroni & cheese all slurped up, I cracked open my freezer and peered deep within. Refrigerators have lights in them. Freezers don’t. This—surely one of life’s deeper mysteries!—threatened to derail my train of thought, but I held steady: I wasn’t clambering up into my freezer right now to contemplate deep questions like appliance lighting, I just wanted some ant bacon. an + bn = cn, as ol’ Fermat well knew: That meant ant bacon, and I wanted some. Now, now, now. But—alas and alack! All I had was pig bacon, turkey bacon, and what appeared to be an old leather belt cut into strips to be passed off as nauga bacon.

It doesn’t make sense. And it doesn’t have to.

“His ex-bitch went up against me—but she didn’t survive.”

Neither brainlets nor smoothbrains will apprehend the following: A zoo of nannybodies, nincomboobs, whows, bingo-morts, gundiguts, mopsies, and trotterclouts were given inexplicable charge of a printing press in March of 1999; what resulted from their insane printingpressery was a meandering tale of a cometary dromedary, grandiloquent dromedary commentary, and lastly, the birth of an actual palindromedary. This two-headed, two-buttocksed camel went on a printing spree up and down Hegelian Avenue until it was subdued by a team of Swabian Swatting Gnomes equipped with fully automatic squiffles. The palindromedary—what was left of it—was then fed into a cannon and fired at the nearest butcher shop. This is how Szczerbaczewicz & Smith’s butcher shop had camel meat on sale for six long weeks.

If you didn’t understand that, you must be a smoothbrained brainlet. Someone either smoothed out all the wrinkles in your brain or they stole more than half of it. Probably to make synapse soup for dinner.

It does make sense. Even if it doesn’t have to.

An irascible dirigible now sat deflated on my town’s docks. A multitude of workmen swarmed around the dirigible, tinkering and poking and sewing her back into her comely, pneumatic shape. The airship Lolo Ferrari had crashed into the harbor after a coterie of arsonist squirrels had set her ablaze, but she had been refloated and was now being repaired. The pride of our mayor’s sustainable air travel initiative, no expense would be spared. The Lolo Ferrari would fly again.

And with that, International Whores’ Day came to an end.

On June 2½, I ran out of H+ ions. I went shopping the day prior but forgot to add “bottle of H+ to my shopping list. Now I was all out of these delicious little cations. Thus, my stint as a human protonophore came to a close. It was a sad day but I would survive, albeit a little less positive about things. (I always do.)

I would shove it far from mind, however. Tomorrow is Dead Duck Day! Will I suffer a fresh round of quack attacks? I’m fully up-to-date on my antiquackery vaccinations but still I approach this curious holiday with the trepidation of a duckling approaching the gaping maw of a carnivorous stinking morel. As surely as Monday will slam into place on my calendar, Dead Duck Day will fly right into my plate glass window—whether I want it to or not. Quack, quack, quack. Will it be a mallard this year? Or a Peking duck? Will it peek through my windows first? Or just slam at full speed into them? Would it survive? I would survive it. (Except that time in 1957, I always do.)

If any of this ever makes sense some day, surely it’s because the U.S. Congress repealed the laws of logic.

The pound sign grew an extra stroke on World Bicycle Day, when it took a vacation to Italy and Turkey. What had cost £7.17 on this side of the pond would cost ₤818,000 over there. I had no plans to visit either of these silly countries (let alone on a bicycle), nor did I have plans to have any extra strokes myself. I don’t want to tempt Fate—my brain has been in good working order since that ball-bouncing incident this morning. Out of nowhere, when I least expected any balls to come flying at my head, I was struck with a 7# (not £7) medicine ball, and—after a brief episode of drooling and convulsing like an eel being devoured by that killer morel—my neurons reordered themselves into something resembling sapience. My thoughts soon followed. After a long, smattersome hour of enfeciated confusion, coherence finally returned!

My skull plates were still nursing a grudge about the whole affair. But they would adjust. They always do. And Becasue wasn’t mad at me anymore about those loose and scattered caltrops all over the roolf of my palatial abode!

If any of this ever makes sense some day, surely it’s because the Supreme Court of the United States has ruled the laws of logic unconstitutional.

But I would survive that too.

I always do.