Subscribe to all of my blatherings right in your wob brewser!Subscribe to my latest blatherings right in your wob brewser! Pnårp in print! Made from 35% recycled toilet paper! Send Pnårp your garrulous praise… or excretory condemnation! The less you tweet? The more you toot! Dreaming widely about my page! Tweet! Tweet! Twat! Livin’ it up… on a living journal! A whole book full of my faces? A whole book full of my faces?
You’re my favorite visitor!

Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page

A fresh set of gnome latrines

Spun on July 23, 2023.

I stood up and bid yesterday’s blunch adieu. It had served me well but now it was time to say farewell. Then, I flushed.

The day was getting off to a good start. A good start indeed. It was Sunday. The whole week was behind me (except today, which had just begun, rather than ended, which wouldn’t happen for another fifteen hours). It was nine o’clock in the morning.

My gleaming white throne had been reconnected to her sewer line—back as she was meant to be. She was also still connected to that wayward septic tank—I guess the best toilets ought to have options—and now, a brand new cesspit. Those Pomeranian Plumbing Gnomes had, as is their wont, gone overboard with their re-piping and their re-fitting. They even installed a fresh set of gnome latrines in my back yard.

In quieter moments, I wonder why we humans can go cross-eyed voluntarily but can’t look up to the left and down to the right at the same time. Nor can we go wall-eyed without the requisite seizure, psychosis, or concussion. I’ve always wanted to be a lizard when I grew up, with independent eye turrets that could spin in all directions. But instead I grew up into a doofus-shaped man in an asshat and bolo tie.

And in louder moments, the late Roy G. Biv, a man who took it personally when crickets stopped chirping as he walked by them, once composed this poem:

He meant to make a dreidel out of clay.

He meant to make a dreidel to play with every day.

He meant to make a dreidel out of clay—but ended up with a golem.

He claimed it was based on a true story, but no one ever believed him. We knew dreidels were make-believe. But then ol’ Biv was eaten by a grue so we’ll never know.

Way back in 1996, I was told to get a job at the cat-canning plant in 4,004 days. I returned 4,004 days later—to the second!—and I did land that job. I canned cats as hard as a cat-canner could can cats—until I was informed that this curious cat-canning plant didn’t actually exist. So I blorpled on off to my next career. And today is 6,006 days from that fateful day!

Note well, January 28, 2018 was 4,004 days from it. But that day was filled with horror, wailing, and the gnashing of endless rows of teeth, so we shan’t mention it ever again. (The canned cats were all eaten by harooloos.) 6,006 days are just as nice as 4,004 days, so here we are now.

I scratched my head. I thought it was snowing but it was only my eyebrow dandruff. My brain turned its thoughts to fried moose synapse and Uma Thurman barefoot again. An image of Elon Musk slapping Mark Zuckerberg with a dead fish popped into my head right then. I went wall-eyed and chuckled. Even the colors were histrionic.