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Angry monkey syndrome, a dishdirtier

Illustrated on February 4, 2024.

Everything dies. Everything poops, too. Well… except plants. Plants don’t poop. At least not much. Some plants poop more than others. Like those houseplants that beat me up back in 2012 and those flowers that did it again in 2021. They were little shitters, all right.

Everything dies. There was one tiny shred of good news: Sports Illustrated may be dead, but Goats Illustrated yet lived. All us goat afficionados were keeping it afloat, at least for one more year. I had to thank Louisiana for their assistance, too. The Louisiana Legislature sure must love those goats. At least I didn’t have to thank Florida or Mississippi.

Everything dies. Well… except things that are already dead. Those things don’t die. But they still poop.



“Thank doG for Mississippi,” a wise Florida Man once said. It was honestly the only thing those poor sods had going for them.



I spent Wednesday—the middle of the week, hump day to many, and schtupp day to others—snorting β-lactam antibiotics like they were goin’ out of style. My drapetomanic wanderings had finally caught up to me, resulting in a feverish bout of anosmia, a-nose-mia, and finally the complete detachment of my nose. It ran off with the runcible spoon. I found it lying with the mesothelioma in that drainage ditch. The mad cow disease wasn’t far behind—and then came the even more fearsome trio of sad horse disease, angry monkey syndrome, and insane clown posse.

I sat down and whined in petulance, frustration, and even—dare I say it—a bit of constipation. All I wanted was a fresh bottle of spruce mustard and bouillabaisse. Was that too much to ask? Instead my nose detached and ran off with a spoon!

I could feel it all the way down in my Golgi bodies. A clockwork orange, resucked. Repackaged, reprinted, rebuilt, rewound, unwound, unfound, unfounded, and pounded down into the ground. My limerent abjection was and its puissant jouissance was complete.

More hooting ensued, but there were no owls (except that big stack of dead ones amassing at the end of my curiously tortuous driveway). Even more hooting ensued subsequently, and there weren’t even any Houthi around these parts. Unless I somehow got lost and ended up in Yemen again. It’s been known to happen.

My ceiling clock hooted, owl-like. Still it kept hanging up there, hanging on for dear life. I harrumphed contemptuously at my wall clocks and floor clock. “Why can’t you be so daring? You just sit there.” They did not answer.

My sad horse neighed, donkey-like. She’s always been a very confused horse. And that’s why she’s so depressed.

Becasue squeaked, chipmunk-like. Still she kept finding interesting and novel uses for battery clamps.

The pangolin nesting in my dishwasher snorted, pangolin-like. There’s really nothing like a pangolin living in your dishwasher. It poops, too. That’s why I don’t have any clean dishes anymore. It’s just an endless cycle of washing and dirtying again. I should rename it my dishdirtier.