There’s a joke in here somewhere
Pedicured on March 17, 2024.
There’s a joke buried in here somewhere. It’s only a matter of finding it.
Or maybe it’s under here. Or maybe it’s under my hair. Or maybe it’s just over there. Maybe my hair is on fire. Maybe I don’t have hair anymore. Maybe it all fell off and is livin’ it up in my shower drain now. And now it has been twenty-five years plus ten days so no one cares about that anymore. Ho hum.
There’s a joke buried here somewhere. I just need enough truffle hogs to root around for it and find it.
“What If I Queefed in Your Arms Tonight?” was playing on the radio, Lady Dugong and the Crotchrockets’ latest hit. I called every pig rental business in the Yellow Pages but no one had a truffle hog for me to rent tonight. I should have walked away. I should have walked away. Then I realized the Yellow Pages I have is from from 1994. Ho hum.
Not even Dana Scully’s delicately manicured hands nor her little feet could help me here.
You’re all a bunch of humorless bastards, too. Help me find the joke buried here somewhere or I’ll go bonkers. Nutty. Daffy. Daft. Barmy. Mad. Spratly. Glonkers. Even horse-doofery!
There’s a joke buried here somewhere. It’s only a matter of digging it up—exhuming the corpse—and reanimating it like I’m a character in a Lovecraft novel.
Feeding arugala and bouillabaisse to tardigrades has become one of my inimical pastimes, supplanting my erstwhile yearning to periodically slam my head into my toilet bowl. Arugala, finely ground, whittled down to mere nubs, makes a good garnish for bouillabaisse. My whole street is always overflowing with bouillabaisse. But some say that’s just the raw sewage spewing from the storm drains.
There’s nothing more dangerous than a tardigrade with a C++ compiler.
My desire to practice testudinal husbandry against all odds is surely a testament to my testicular fortitude. If only Lake Athabasca was within trudging distance (without all the frostbite and hypothermia along the way). They won’t send buses up there anymore after last week’s incident near Medicine Hat. They labeled me an asshat for that. I should have packed more dynamite.
My earlier yearning to use a katydid as a fiddle and a scorpion as a switchblade turned out rather poorly, too. But that didn’t blow up in my face. And it didn’t detonate any autobuses either. It made Becasue mad at me though, which in some ways is worse. My voluminous buttocks still has those goatskin sandalprints on it.
The brewing brouhaha out in the street put me in mind of but one thing: Grigori Perelman’s dispute with José Vargas de las Joyas Matemáticas over the 81818th digit of the square root of 9-1-1. (It’s a nine.) That arithmetical kerfluffle wasn’t as comical as the unending feud between James Garfield and that fat orange cat (nor did it involve lasagna being hurled about like missiles). Yet the prospect of a war breaking out over a tortellinous tortoise shell was pretty amusing.
Almost as amusing as a Vorlon dance troupe.
I still wasn’t sure how to truss all these disparate “thoughts” together into a coherent aggrumulation. Yet I would try. Or die hooting.
The demented Democratic Party and the backwards Яepublican Party were both coming unhinged this week. One of their aggrandiose candidates was touting the fact that he had created over 10,000 new jobs in the mortuary business since 2020. (His approval rating among undertakers was at an all-time high, we have to admit.) And the other knucklewit was falsely claiming that repealing the ban on lead-lined baby bottles and pacifiers would create even more jobs. Polls were all over the place and only proved one thing: There’s nothing more dangerous than a tardigrade with a statistics degree.
Perhaps the ficus tree has a shot this year. Or perhaps not. One thing was alas ensured: It was going to be a long year. A long, drawn-out year. A full 366 days of it.
Twizzlers and Skittles rained from the sky, followed by a single AR-15. My roof-mounted AK-47 was jealous. But the machine gun emplacements in my back yard were furious. The Twizzlers continued to pour down, spiraling out of control as they did so. The spectacle put me in mind of the Historiograph, which I had invented in 1998.
I remember 1998 fondly: The year I learned about recycled eyebrows and the year my dear sister Plårp stopped threatening to kick me in a hole in the ground and fill it full of spiders.
There’s a joke buried here somewhere. But the spiders surrounded it and suffocated it in their sticky webs. Now they’re sucking the last remaining drops of hemolymph from it. I hate spiders. Spinning spiders, singing spiders, and most of all, spiders that truss you up in their webs and suck all your blood out through your nostril. I’ll take that clawed, skinless, eye-ridden succubus over spinning, singing, sucking spiders any day of the week (except Gongsday).
Another bitcoin scam broke out in my living room, distracting me from my arachnidal reverie. Hooting madly, I ran downstairs to see what all the hubbub was abub, but it was ovub by the time I tripped and stumbled nose-first into the room. Nurdlebutt snickered and darted off while I readjusted my nose and reattached it to the outside of my face. (My do-it-yourself rhinoplasty is typically successful, but today…)
Afterward, the stinkberry pies got up to schtupping all my oatmeal cookies, and that was that. I wouldn’t have a problem with them anymore. The moles, voles, dholes, and even the Poles—now them, I did. After that, the stinkbugs got up to schtupping all the katydids, and that was that.
[Feetnote: My best efforts to bribe the calendar-makers to insert another leap day this month have failed again. But somehow I had caused the last lighthouse in Oklahoma to lose its funding in the process, a feat which still confuses me.]