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Musings on the salad of chicken and eggs

Emulsified on November 5, 2023.

Or is chicken salad just really old egg salad?

These are the revelations that keep me up at night.

By this week, autumn had finished eating all the leaves. This put my mind at ease: If autumn had not accomplished the task, I would be required to eat all those green leaves myself. Even with the execrable exacerbation of global narming, I knew autumn would finally finish eating, Langolier-like, all the leaves. It had to. I would not have to. Now I had enough room in my belly to go eat my tires so there was in turn enough room on my car for snow tires. My garage after all was too full of gnome skulls to store any more tires and eight wheels on a Trabant are just too many. So I would have to eat them. But now I wouldn’t have to eat them. Or any other tires.

My use of the word “intrigued” a week ago is a hapax legomenon for me, I suddenly realized. Then: “Oh no! Now it’s a dis legomenon!” I shrieked and ran around my living room, then hid in a hole in the floor until I realized that shrieking and babbling never solves anything. Soon I realized hiding myself in a hole in the ground, head-down, ostrich-like, also solves nothing. So, I reemerged, koala-like, and ate some more old Trabi tires.

My addiction to parentheses is slowing rearing its (ugly) head again. I can’t control it anymore. Each of my parenthesisless sentences cry out for the warm, curving embrace of a pair of finely balanced parentheses. I can’t help myself anymore. I just can’t!

Today is Guy Fawkes Day. I intend to celebrate by blowing up Parliament, but it’s on the other side of the Pond, so it might take me a couple weeks to get around to doing the deed. Or I might put it off until 2024. My parenthetical addiction is only outweighed by my crushing procrastination.

Next Saturday is eleven, eleven. I intend to celebrate by imploring all the glittering machine elves who live in the interstices between the D-branes and p-branes to emerge and explain to the world why they created us all. And why they did so in this layer of space instead of a nicer one. And also, why they created Rory Calhoun. Because that was a mistake.

[Don’t blame me for your inability to arrange your thoughts. —Ed.]

This Saturday, Becasue cooked me cornpones with real corn nuts… not those dreaded gone-wrong ones. I did the dishes. Nurdlebutt unraveled every roll of toilet paper in every bathroom in my palatial abode. Deep beneath Bouillabaisse Boulevard, the fatberg slowly grew.

Becasue had made the finest gone-right cornpones a man could ever nosh upon without turning into a cob of corn himself. After a vigorous game of pin the tail on the cow, we slept and we dreamed. Becasue dreamed of corn. And this time that clawed, skinless, eye-ridden demoness visited me in my dreams and tried to kill me with a pair of everted boats, but my patron god Ka‘ū saved me. He did it with a pair o’ bulls, a pair o’ ducks, and a pair o’ geese. Even well-saved, I slowly drifted out to sea—on the back of a really, really big fish. The Owl Gods just hooted uproariously at my disfortunes. Ka‘ū should have made offsite backups of me.

My docile perfunctorialisms continue to drift aimlessly, wandering from topic to topic to topic, much like how that really, really big fish left me adrift in the specific ocean.

I finished the hard, thankless work of digging myself a new basement on Tuesday. Now I had room to stack and skewer another twenty thousand gnome skulls. The gnomes would thank me for giving them all that extra room. Tuesday came before Saturday so I am at a loss as to why this paragraph comes after the one about Saturday. I’ll ask my Editor why he keeps disarranging my bloggery and knotting up my streams of unconsciousness. It’s not my fault.

Specifically, the Pacific Ocean.

Egg salad is made with eggs and mayonnaise. And mayonnaise is made with eggs. And chickens come from eggs, so… “Mayonnaise is chicken, too!” I shrieked and ran around my living room in strict parallelograms. Becasue and Nurdlebutt watched me, speechless and meowless. “It’s… it’s… it’s… chickens all the way down!!”

Perhaps this was why Mike the Headless Chicken lost his head! And perhaps they made a jar of mayonnaise out of it afterward! More shrieking and geometric jactitating ensued. More ostrich-like hole-hiding ensued. Whence followed much chicken-like clucking, horse-like clucking, and finally pig-like oinking and rooting around in the dirt for mushrooms.

Then I schtupped a Three and an Eight. Both were barefoot. Then I took a languorous trip up the number line but couldn’t get much past twelve. So, I switched gears, turned sideways, and suddenly things went all imaginary on me.

Egg soup is made with eggshells and clam soup is made with clamshells. So, is it crunchy all the way down? But I prefer my clams smooth and hairless, so I hope not!

Wednesday, corn nut–like, went wrong: I got bit by a Winchester goose! But I got better. At least I didn’t turn back into a newt like that other guy who got better did. My bubos and carbuncles healed but my carbaunts and carbnephews never did. Alas I would never be carbon neutral.

These are the revelations that keep me up at night.

My 5½-foot-tall girl–chipmunk dressed up as Brittany for Halloween. I tried to go as Alvin but I’m a six-foot-tall man–squirrel so I couldn’t pull it off. Then I pulled off hers and we played pin the tail on the cow again! Much excited chittering and mooing ensued.

Geese have goosticles. Do roosters have roosticles? But what if neither have either? Moreover, half of us humans have a pair o’ testicles. The other half doesn’t. Statistically speaking, all humans have just one testicle—and one ovary. Luckily I never have to speak statistical.

My IT Morlocks tell me I need to start using IPv6; my blog doesn’t fit on IPv4 anymore. It’s too fat! So I started at “::1” and went from there. But then no one could see my blog but me! It became apparent, 34 undecillion addresses later, I had no idea how to use this newfangled internetting protocol. All those colons look unnatural, too. My own colon shifted uneasily at that thought—envious of the attention I was giving to all these other colons.

A cabal of Cylons from Ceylon tricked me into thinking those glittering machine elves were mere figments of my imagination. But I know better! And now I have a Six living in my head alongside all the other voices, berating me nonstop, so I don’t know what to make of all of this. I am, you could say, once again matriculated into the perfunctory margin of disbelief. Perhaps I should lay off the egg salad.

Being in the mere presence of a barrel of turds sickens me. It can be sealed tight—or open and steaming lightly. It doesn’t matter. Being in the mere presence of a barrel of turds sickens me. But so does remembering how many barrels of turds a flock of dodos can produce in a lifetime—if dodos weren’t as extinct as disco, that is. But barrels of bird turds aren’t worth what they were in the 19th century, not since Rory Calhoun invented a way to make fertilizer from finely-ground goose testicles. That’s why there are so many gelded geese nowadays.

But then some German guy figured out how to make fertilizer from natural gas, which is why there is so little flatulence nowadays. Except when I eat egg salad.

These are the revelations that keep me up at night.

By Thursday my new basement cellar was piled high with gnome skulls—filled to the rafters. I need another new one. But by Wednesday, it had already been full of gnome skulls! I was at a loss to explain where they all came from—until I remembered, I slew all those gnomes on Monday. A thankless job. But, like unstopping stopped-up toilets or schtupping integers, someone had to do it. And I was that someone. All because of those mushrooms I uprooted while being all pig-like.

These are the revelations that keep me up at night. And fear of that succubus torturing me more.

I can’t help myself! My addiction is relentless, unstoppable. I snipped all the parentheses out of all the magazines I have stacked up on my innumerable shelves (and ate them (not the shelves, the parentheses)). But I still need more! More, more! (More! (More!! (More!!!)))

On Friday I tried to dig myself another new cellar basement but I struck the sewer line, which flooded everything with shit, and then I struck the gas line, which blew everything to smithereens. And made a lot of fertilizer.