Defenestrated accoutrements and that horse again
Discalced on June 29, 2025.
I face a conundrum of a most elephantine magnitude: Should I celebrate this dreaded fifth Sunday—or mourn the passing of the fourth Saturday the day prior? Adding to my dilemma, the fifth Monday is scheduled for tomorrow, barring unforeseen circumstances such as another plane falling from the sky or the Large Hardon Collider slamming one too many gonads together and creating a microsingularity that would collapse the entire planet. I shrugged and decided to go play with my big little redheaded huzzey-muffet instead.
Becasue fully discalced, her shoes and other accoutrements fully defenestrated, we then made corn go wrong like never before.
“Yosemite Sam riding a gazelle with James Thurber and H.G. Wells. But they’re actually all gnomes wearing convincing disguises,” I explained. “It all begins to make sense if you think about it for a moment. I mean, your sandals—”
My 5½-foot-tall girl–chipmunk gave me her all-too-familiar quizzical look and vowed she would never again ask me what I was thinking about right now.
“But now I’m thinking about going downstairs and murdering that stick of butter in the fridge!”
There shall be no fifth Tuesday. July is upon us!—with much annatto and amaretto it shall arrive. Also upon us is a very angry horse, albeit a tiny one—angry because someone kept painting zebra stripes on it. (That’s how I got kicked in the head again.)
We were out of sticks of butter. Someone ate the last one whole. I blamed the cat burglar we caught on our roof on Monday, but when Becasue told me that no such incident had transpired—which was duly confirmed by the continued presence of an unburgled Nurdlebutt catting about our palatial abode—I instead blamed the burgled butter on Burmese Burgling Gnomes. My huzzey-muffet, her deep and abiding fear and loathing of gnomes of any kind duly triggered, bought that excuse lock, stock, and barrel. She even bought it hook, line, and sinker.
Still out of butter, I started eating the mayonnaise.
Gnomes landing a seaplane on my face sprung to mind suddenly. But it was already summer—spring had sprung off. I shrugged and decided to go play with my big little redheaded huzzey-muffet some more.
Becasue fully bare of feet, her shoes and other accoutrements again defenestrated, we then made corn go oh, so right again.
“You can ‘land your seaplane’ on my face anytime you want!” I snorted. She was working on a new not-gonna-ask look and made it right then. I snorted again and dove back in.
Morning arrived, stiff and turgid. I searched for my huzzey-muffet’s sandals in the back yard but came up empty. Perhaps squirrels ate them—they do have a taste for goatskin after all. Then I got distracted and went mining for more gnome gold in my back yard but came up empty again. Then I learned the gnomes were mining bitcoin instead now. (At least that explained the $12,000 electric bills.) I shrugged and set my wainscoting on fire.