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A byte nybbled a word, and then…

Nibbled on December 10, 2023.

Eight bits make a byte, and four bits make a nybble, so shouldn’t sixteen bits make a “wyrd”? Why is it a “word”?

Is “bird” the word?

Is the bird the word?

Or a wyrd? Perhaps a wyvern is the wyrd.

Bird is the word!

The Seine in France has little to do with seines and even less to do with seins. These are the kinds of things you can learn by plodding around the Internet in the pwee hours of the morning.

The Bird is, for some, the very Word of God. For Pnårps like me, doG is the word. The Word of doG.

A million-million slithy toves all wrapped about each other are worth less than a single unbent runcible spoon. Runcible spoons are highly versatile and good for many things, such as scooping ice cream, changing tires, and extracting impacting nose hairs—an embarrassing health problem from which I have occasionally suffered! Now, impacted nose hairs might not be as humiliating as those times I got my own seins caught in that seine—but it sure is close. However, only the latter could explain that nickname I unwillingly acquired back in 1997: Phillip Norbert “Fishtits” Årp.

Fish have no mammaries but bologna is just hotdogs for people who like pancakes. Fish don’t even produce milk but raccoons do. Fish milk does sound delicious, though—better than potato juice, turkey juice, and maybe even pepperoni tea. Pepperoni is an awesome, greasy stick to snack upon—even better than spiced tires. Troglobytes make a tasty snack for wyverns, I’ve been told, spiced or unspiced. And bologna is really just unrolled hotdogs.

I always wash my hands before I use a public bathroom: You never know how many toxins you have on your hands before you touch your nads! And I always flush before I use the toilet: You never know if there are invisible turds in there! But I never flush afterward and my own deposit is never invisible!

“Dight!” I cursed voothily. “Dight and swive!” Even if I wanted to flush this time, I could not: The handle on the toilet just spun and spun and spun. I stood there dumbly spinning it a few dozen times—’round and ’round it went, ’round and ’round and ’round—before I concluded that the task was hopeless. The toilet would remain unflushed. I quickly surmised that someone had loosed an angry badger in the back of the toilet, who—as angry badgers are wont to do—chewed her way through the flapper in a desperate bid to escape. And clearly, she had succeeded.

Thirty more words and Becasue will stop threatening to stomp me with her goatskin flip-flops.

The bytes nybbled on the wyrd, and then—

The occasional jerkass Mulder was certainly more amusing than the seemingly endless years of jerkass Homer. I myself have occasionally morphed from a well-meaning buffoon into a mean-spirited punchline, but I always morph back. Or die trying.

And that’s how I died last night.