Accelerating my celery
Zorbed on May 11, 2025.
Tuesday. News came that the Twiceler had ensconced himself in the mires of Eëtal-Otoh-Satt, intent on living out the rest of his days under its golden yellow clouds and five suns. He had left the planet Ogo behind forever, fleeing another uprising by Plutonian Plundering Gnomes. Not even that flivver-flabber man named Eëtarrh-Otorrh-Sharrtt could convince him to return.
I pondered: How did that planet come to be named Ogo? Was it named after an outdoor gravity orb? Or an orbiting geophysical observatory? Or that obsolete, early-2000s pocket computer made by German company 1&1? I paused my ponderings, sudden cravings replacing them. Now I wanted to go zorbing. But Zorb McBorbley stood in my way. He was Borb’s recently deceased—but even more recently reanimated—brother. What to do? I punched my cravings back down and returned to pondering.
Then the Twiceler did it again because he does everything twice. Even Two’s Day.
Tuesday again. I found that my celery was too slow—so I accelerated it by soaking it in WD-40. I accelerated my celery, I did! And indeed that made it slide much easier! But it slid right off my plate before I could slide it down my throat. I wasn’t sure what to do about that. I tried wrapping it in duct tape—sticky side out—but that made it harder to chew and it got stuck in my craw. Without hesitation, I then wrapped the nearest duck in duct tape. Becasue just looked on, speechless. But I was full of speech. Too bad it wasn’t comprehensible—what with that sticky, oily celery stuck in my craw.
I tried taping up a second duck but then tripped on another piece of slippery celery and broke my coccyx. Being the indefatigable Grand Pnårpissimo, this did not faze me in the slightest. I got up, picked up all 157 pieces of my shattered butt bone, then gave that duck a good quackin’. Becasue continued to stare, even more speechless.
I then remembered that horrible, failed “WD-39” project. I never proved it, but I was quite certain it had played a large part in creating that crater in Bobo, Mississippi.
Tiw’s Day. I awoke to Becasue stomping on my face barefoot again. I rolled over and went back to sleep. Then the day repeated but called itself Two’s Day again.
This repetitiveness made me reminisce about another early-2000s phenomenon: The band Lycanthropy and their hit single “Feiled Failed”. Someone once tried to convince me it was a bad cover of an Arlo Guthrie song, but I knew better: It was in fact a terrible cover of a Murderdeathcock piece. Becasue kicked me in the face again, so I rolled back over and went back to sleep again.
II’s Day. This one came to a close fast—but then started again. I should have known not to use pages from my ceiling calendar as a fish wrap.
P.S.: No, Nurdlebutt is not dead. Cats from Ogo don’t have nine lives, they have thirty-seven.