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Gearless largesse and rageless eelgrass

Snorkeled on June 11, 2023.

The apathetic, almost emotionless eelgrass undulated and mivulated in the shallow bay. It was unconcerned. It was at peace with the world around it. It had all the time it needed. Nothing could upset the eelgrass—nothing could disturb nor even perturb it. It undulated and mivulated some more.

I watched from the shore. The waves ebbed and flowed, and still the eelgrass serenely undulated. The eelgrass was minty. I would eat some if only I could find my diving equipment. And if only the seagulls—which kept shitting on my head—didn’t snarf up all the eelgrass first. But then I choked on my own mint toothpaste and began to have second thoughts about swallowing anything else minty this week.

It was unclear why I brought a tube of toothpaste to chew on while I was out and about, but I had. I threw it in the nearest trash can and trotted home.



Monday was Dead Duck Day! My irrational, bigoted hatred of ducks is known far and wide, so naturally this high holy day became one of my favorite holidays approximately π+1 seconds after I learned of its existence (which was last week). I celebrated by climbing onto my roolf and quacking stridently until my neighbors emerged from their homes to see what was the matter. Then I set off over 50,000 firecrackers—mostly aimed at my neighbors’ own roolfs. My anti-anatid antics were met with dubious stares, much pointing and laughing, and then finally loud cheers as they all realized they really, really hated ducks, too. Everyone was brought together by their shared hatred of ducks. It was beautiful. Even all the house fires I accidentally started were quickly forgiven.



My radioactive spearmint is in full bloom this week—green, and glowing nicely. At least it isn’t soft, and steaming lightly like the turdie trees in Parsimony Plaza, or spontaneously exploding like the incendiary flowers of the galumph tree.

Most everything is in bloom. The poesies & toesies. The wispf-flowers. The graceful poitflowers on all the poit-trees. Even my chocolate is blooming again. My spaghetti trees had bloomed early, but now they are growing a succulent crop of spags from every branch. I’ll have fresh, delicious spaghetti all year!

I looked up at my snufflowers—a sunflower variant I had imported from Ungabuganda. Growing atop a heap of the finest cow flops, they stared dolefully down at me. I grinsped worriedly. These ominous flowers wouldn’t pummel me with their fists like my indoor flower pots would, fortunately. But they did tower above me. And loomed balefully. I grinsped harder, suddenly aquiver with panic at the thought of being beaten senseless by angry flowers. I took two steps back toward the safety of my palatial abode but then remembered: They are flowers and I am Pnårp. I’d show them who’s the boss around here. So I shot their cow flops full of holes, then nonchalantly munched another spearmint leaf.

“Mmm, minty… and gammalicious!”



My p-values were all over the place on Monday, much like my scattered brains. I wasn’t sure how it happened—either a tornado hit my house and nailed me right in the noggin, or I had another shotgun mishap like I’m often wont to do. Or my huzzey-muffet threw another medicine ball at my head. Maybe my skull plates had gone on strike over that. Anyroad, I had a lot of brains to scoop up and pour back into my head.

Moribunditude ended this Tuesday—like a thief in the night. Like a cat burglar slipping into your home at night and burgling your cats. The rampant terwilligerism infesting and infatuating yestermonth continued—only obstructed occasionally by the large, knobby boulder that rolled down Bouillabaisse Boulevard and pulverized everything in its path. But since yestermonth existed only in concept now (and memory), it was unaffected. Nothing could stop yestermonth from continuing to exist forever. Except perhaps this month. Or… next month?

Or even one of those months months away, such as November, December, or Undecimber.

Troglodytes, trilobites, and lastly troglobytes swam by languidly in the bay while I abused my p-values further. With enough bullshit to baffle ’em with, I could prove anything to anyone with p-values like this. All I needed was my snorkel, and I could prove anything. And I would set out to do so—but then the week ended abruptly Wednesday night.

The month wore on, but the week was over on Wednesday. Next week had begun early. I frantically set about updating my docile & perfunctory blog before it was too late, but was soon thwarted by a squirrel-shaving mishap. Now it’s too late. But, this Pnårp has never been good at accepting when it’s too late, so he’ll plow forward, persevering, stirring this word slurry, until a worse mishap takes him out.

I did accept one thing however: Trying to shave a live squirrel and update a blog at the same time is bound to fail.



The new basilisk obelisk in Gorgonzola Plaza was unveiled on Wednesday—a remembrant monument to the eyebrow-tweezing accident that occurred there in 1887 and changed the town’s hairstyles forever. I had been nowhere near the plaza when it happened, so my own eyebrows remained firmly intact, straight, and fully unplucked. In fact, I had not even been born yet.

Regardless, my obelism continued—I, scribbling obelus after obelus in every tome I could get my goat-like hands upon. And even the derbfine and obolus men would join me in obelism (at the new basilisk obelisk, of course) once someone stole their hats hard enough. Which I did. Hah!

Pausing in my obelism for a quiff, I couldn’t fathom why a skinny and upright salamander was an appropriate monument to that supercilious disaster, but such questions are best left to the eyebrow experts. And since I am being 5′11″ this week, rather than a full six feet, fathoming anything is at least an inch beyond reach. Crestfallen (but still fully eyebrowed!), I slunk back into my palatial abode, unfolded my Hopeless Slack-Ass® recliner, and collapsed in an abbreviated heap.

I fell asleep and dreamed I was being suffocated by mucous Schmarnocks flowers.

A catechism of cachexia awoke me. Again I somehow lost all my weight, but then—as Luck would have it!—I found it all again. It was hiding under my girth where I couldn’t see it. I breathed a sigh of relief and slumped back down into my recliner.



Next week I will venture down to the new fried chicken restaurant on Strontium-90 Street. I haven’t eaten any good chickens lately, and I do like me some chicken. (Unlike ducks, which I hate.) Cluck, cluck, cluck. This new chicken joint promises to be even more radioactive than the Drunken Donuts next door. I wonder if their chickens have two heads or three eyes.

My woolgathering feathergathering was interrupted by an urgent quacking coming from across the street. I paused. I wasn’t up on my roolf anymore quacking up a storm, so it wasn’t me doing it. But who else would be quacking in the bush like that? I waggled over to my window and looked.

Mr. Plerkle was up to his old poetastery again. He was flapping his arms, quacking and clucking about the sidewalk, meandering to and fro like a duck that had lost its mama. The other members of the Bad Poetry Club had all been eaten by grues (or maybe basilisks), so Mr. Plerkle was on his own now. Without the support of those other awful Poet-Men, Mr. Plerkle’s attempts at low-grade rhymery had been reduced to nothing more than meek, burbling animal noises. I wonder who set those grues upon Roy G. Biv and Messrs. Snulbug and M’Nummenschantz.

I do wonder.



This week suddenly restarted amidst next week, confusing and confuzzling me greatly and discombobulating my neighbors to an even greater degree. On Thursmorning, I rushed out onto the sidewalk (the one upon which the erstwhile Mr. Plerkle had composed his last poem) and ran into another man—a new man no less, a man selling things, things of all kinds. He was a fishmonger, a duck broker, a medal peddler, and a horse/goat trader wrapped all into one. He said he could provide me with anything. Except gears. The man said could provide me with anything I needed—but no gears. He hated gears, he feared them, and he loathed them. He had screws—he had levers—he had pulleys. But nary a gear. So, all my alarm clocks would stay broken for another week. My Trabi’s transmission would remain firmly impacted in that guardrail where I left it on Tuesnight.

But my own impaction was over. I quacked, neighed, and trotted home—empty-handed but placidly contented nonetheless.

Again the week came full circle. Again the week looped back upon itself, inside-out and upside-down, like a Möbius belt worn by a doofus-shaped moron. And thus, gearless largesse met rageless eelgrass as the week drew to a close.