Toenails, a treatise, a brass bag
Painted on June 1, 2025.
And so my nose went on vacation to the Madagascan island of Nosy Be—firmly wedged up my own buttcrack. I bought them both one-way tickets. Alas, they were a resourceful bunch; they might figure out how to return on their own!
Noseless and with not a single buttock, I reclined and rested in my easiest easy chair. I smarmed elegantly—basking in my successitude. Becasue eyed me quizzically.
Moreover, hereunder, whereby, and therein, this week I had also completed my new treatise on proper nail clipping technique! The chapters on proper toenail shape, length, texture, and albedo, including a detailed history of toenail lengths throughout the ages, had long been complete. But only last week had I finally perfected a nail clipping method which dealt with the problem of the crescentic little bastards flying across the room in every direction each time the clippers bit into them. Now, that chapter was complete.
Another week comes to an end. (When will it stop?)
On Saturday, Becasue and I went up to Nizgidge Ridge to watch the sunset. The Sun slowly descended as it is wont to do, then stumbled around a bit and fell below the horizon suddenly. It was then that magical moment when darkness and quiet descends on the world, the stars come out, and the trees start screaming. We took that as our cue to get out of there before we were eaten by a grue.
“Why are you painting your toenails bright orange?”
“It’s marking paint! So when they go flying, I can find them!”
Becasue shook her head and sauntered off. Now I wanted to paint her toenails orange—because it looks so good on her.
I failed at installing my air conditioner in my window on Friday because I confused it with my hair conditioner. This wasn’t as problematic as when I’d demanded my shampoo be replaced with real poo, but it was no less embarrassing. Then I tried attaching a brass bag to my nail clippers but that ended in comical disaster and everyone forgot about the goop all over the windowsill.
The tragicomedy continued Sunday morning when I realized my big little redheaded huzzey-muffet had left her sandals—most of them—up on Nizgidge Ridge the night prior. I tell her she only needs to wear two or three pair at a time but she doesn’t listen. And I was fresh out of goatskin, so retrieving them was muchly needful. So, chainsaw and can of tree repellent in hand, I went to retrieve them. But I was too late—the trees had devoured them all. At least none of those monsters devoured me!
On the walk home, I spied the derbfine and obolus men lurking at the blunderbuss stop on Ooidonk Avenue—and a Wall Street yuppie sporting a Stradivarius for a wristwatch. (Do people even wear wristwatches anymore?) The derbfine and obolus men’s reappearance was a baleful sign, but then I wondered: Could you use a Stradivarius as a nail clipper…?