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

One moron’s opinion

Opined for May 19, 2024.

A certain search engine revealed this week there are about 127 results for “one moron’s opinion” (in 0.37 seconds). I decided to increase that number as much as I could. I have lots of opinions on things. And so, I got to opining. I opined and I opined and I opined. Soon, I found that I couldn’t stop opining. On every topic, I opined.

I opined openly. I opined loudly. I opined vociferously, vehemently, and vendaciously.

I opined that George H.W. Bush was truly the best president (before President Piggy-Man of course). Of all our former presidents, he had the best initials. I further opined that Bill Nye was the best science guy that ever lived, but that Grace Metalious had the best name that one can accidentally conflate with an obscure Catholic rite. Only Pope Francis could clear up that confusion—yet he was quite mum on the topic. (And in my humble opinion, his mum should have spanked him more when he was a baby.)

In my estimation, Stephen Crane is only outdone by Sutter Cane’s writings, to say nothing of Stephen King. An axe beats a walking stick any day. Ted Bundy far outshines Ted Kaczynski but Pablo Picasso and Mr. Rogers clearly have them both beat as artists (albeit not as serial killers). Further consideration made me realize that Vladimir Lenin is clearly the better Communist than Vladimir Putin could ever be—although Putin outshines David Berkowitz by far (again, on the serial killer side of things). Pausing in my opinionating, I realized: None of this really answers the question, “Which is better? A wendigo? Or a tailypo?” Could a tailypo rip the tail off a wendigo? Or would the wendigo eat its skin off first?

Being a highly opinionated man–squirrel, pugnacious in my positions and altogether all-to-certain in my assertions, I moved on to bloviate, varicate, and infloviate upon the topics of food, drink, and other edible things (such as molybdenum). Elderberries are tastier than raspberries, I concluded after less than π seconds of rumination. Crudberry pie pales in comparison to invidious flobcumber cake. Sriracha sauce is superior to Frank’s RedHot by far—and both can be used as steak sauce, horse sauce, prawn sauce, relish, or even varnish.

On the topic of vegetation, I opined that pines are the finest trees, and my opinion on onions is none are greater than the greenest ones. I opined that Opuntia are the finest cacti, and octopine—an opine from octopus spooge!—makes a fine drink.

Abeying my wild opination for an irrelevant aside, I pondered taking another pilgrimage into outer space. But then I remembered, on both my previous spacely sojourns, my homemade rocket ship fell victim to unfortunate run-ins with micro-meteoroids. How repetitive and uncreative the dangers of outer space can be! And secondly, there are probably Lizards out there waiting to conquer me as they have the Rabotevs and Hallessi. So I put the idea out of my mind, such as it is, and went back to opining wildly across the Internet wherever people would listen, could listen, or at least couldn’t avoid listening.

My opinions on popular entertainment were firm and resolute, obstinate, and goat-like: Al Pacino makes a better mobster than Joe Pesci, although Rory Calhoun in a cowboy hat outshines both of them (as a cowboy). Finding myself nearly blinded by all this resplendent “outshining,” I decided that Grover Norquist makes a better Grover than Sesame Street ever could, but Newt Gingrich is a poor imitation of a genuine newt. Those words had barely escaped my lips when a gnute shimmered into being to harry my noggin again with hallucination and mockery. It ceased when I flushed myself out a window.

I landed in my back yard—luckily in one piece. The same could not be said about my corpse, which broke into three pieces upon impact. Using my two remaining eyes, I glanced around my yard. More things to opine upon! Are tulips better than Schmarnocks flowers? They are certainly less mucous and much less aggressive. Are death camas miner bees better than shitbees? They are certainly less shitty. Is an osmium milkshake better than phlebotinum coffee… or simple goat tea? Are rhinestones better than a pair of Slinkies? Which is worse? An auroch with Alzheimer’s or a gazelle with goiters? Truly I have opinions on everything—some fully formed, some half-baked, some as raw as a mallard’s butt in spring.

I picked up my corpse (before the Schmarnocks flowers could uproot themselves and beat me to death) and went back indoors.

Chicago, Chichagof, or even Chichagon/Off? Which is the better city? Which is the better font? And what of the On/Off Star? Is it still infested with singing spiders?

The week continued; with it, my witless boobery flowed unabated. Days passed. I’ve an opinion on each: Monday? Mediocre. Tuesday? Terrific. Wednesday? Waste o’ time. Not even the Supreme Court can outdo my opining—although they are nine, not just one moron with overinflated opinions.

New York v. Ferber, Schmerber v. California, or Ferber v. Schmerber? Which is the bigger case? Which one was landmarkier?

Was that soda-bottling accident in February worse than the 1829 treacle mine explosion? Is the Great Fluffernutter Deluge of 1958 worse than the 1955 hamburgling catastrophe? Can the Zubenelgenubi Street paperclip factory be blamed for selling the bottling plant defective paperclips, setting in motion a train of events that ultimately led to 250,000 bottles being filled not with Coca-Cola but heavy-duty engine degreaser? (And why did it take consumers until May to even notice?)

By Thursday, I had blithely opinionized on every topic the Internet had to offer—and some topics that even the Internet had not dared yet to broach. I was quite startled to learn that not a single person online has ever offered an opinion on pinions, to wit, can one use a pinion for a pannier? Upon learning this, I immediately composed an elaborate and elongated bird-noise to exposit my hot take on this pressing matter. But then I realized that Twitter has been replaced with the worst letter of the alphabet (not only the worst, in my humble opinion, but the most useless). In quite a snit, a most high dudgeon(!), girt about the paps with pique and umbrage(!!), I deleted what I’d excreted, slammed shut every open browser window in an alteffourious fury, and retreated from my screen in a snuffling, puffy huff.

I would not be thwarted! I stumbled downstairs—not falling, not once!—and sat down heavily on the burnt wreckage of my Hopeless Slack-Ass® recliner, intent and deadset to continue my opinionating unmolested. Becasue looked up at me, perched in her own thankfully unburnt chair, and gave me one of those looks like corn had gone wrong again. Then she thought better of inquiring into the source of my snit and dudgeon (smart girl!), and returned to reading the label on the canned corn she’d been studying intently for the last two hours.

With all the zeal of New Zealand, I opined that goats are better than sheep—at many, many things, some not fit to print in this docile & perfunctory, and allegedly family-friendly, blog. With all the engel of New England, I opined that maple syrup is better than treacle—and definitely less explosive. Coca-Cola still makes an excellent engine degreaser, however. I waited for my big little blonde huzzey-muffet to offer her own points or counterpoints. After a long, thoughtful pause, she offered this rejoinder: “This corn doesn’t have any actual corn in it.”

With that—and Vermonstrous maple syrup—now at the forefront of my smooth, supple mind, I returned to opinionizing on food and drink. Toilet water may be good enough for Nurdlebutt, but I will only drink the finest tap water that Bouillabaisse Boulevard could offer—rich in fluoride, chloramine, and perfluorooctanoic acid. “If fish pee in it, it’s good enough for me!” I added nonsequitously, and gulped down another glass. But then my repugnant pugnacity got the best of me (as it so often does), when I unwisely decided to get into a vociferous debate with Nurdlebutt as to the pros and cons of drinking from the toilet. I hissed and howled, and so did she in increasingly obdurate tones. Nurdlebutt, being a cat, ultimately hit upon the perfect technique to win the argument; I, being a six-foot-tall and rather fleshy man–squirrel, knew then to retreat to the medicine cabinet, fetch the iodine and bandages, and sew my face back on and my eyes back into place.

Then I was at it again: Who has nicer feet? Alyssa Milano or Chloë Moretz? Ariana Grande or Nicki Minaj? My big little redheaded huzzey-muffet just looked at me and offered her own opinion: I was being a big doofus again. And I needed a new chair. Then she took her shoes off.

Dying hooting had finally been taken off the table. But many other possible means remain! Stay spooned for more!