A sunset on Nizgidge Ridge
Wiggled at on August 10, 2025.
Becasue and I went up to Nizgidge Ridge to watch the sunset through her splayed toes. It was six o’clock in the smafternoon. Canada was burning to the ground and the sky was filled with a lovely, golden haze. A ghast was playing an oboe up in a galumph tree. Katydids cackled and the poison ivy was in bloom; it was just lovely. Off in the distance, a groundhog oinked. Not even knowledge that Reddit still existed or that Mark Zuckerberg remained uneaten by grues could spoil our mood.
Billions of Canadian trees had to die for this. But their sacrifice was worth it. I would plant another galumph tree in their honor. At least no grunions died, though.
Becasue took to wiggling her toes as the Sun slunk below the horizon. I never understood why the Sun runs off like that every afternoon—does she get bored with our company? Do my unpredictable bouts of squiffling and babbling make the Sun feel unwelcome? Or is it the Moon who frightens her so? The Moon would be rising any moment now and as usual was sure to outshine her in every way.
And so it was, down the Sun went into the unthinking depths of darkness beneath the Earth.
“The Sun is such a coward,” I muttered, but my huzzey-muffet didn’t hear me. (Too much corn in the ears.) I thought about putting more corn in her somewhere. Suddenly, a guinea pig popped out of a hole in the ground—a groundhog hole!—and started oinking too. Would spotted lanternflies come to devour us next? Would a school of grunions go by riding the waves? There were no waves, though.
My 5½-foot-tall girl–chipmunk wiggled her feet again. My attention—which had been momentarily distracted by that betophatted frog who had gone dancing by right then—snapped back to her. “Did you see that?” I asked. She shook her pretty little sciurine head. “Well, that’s funny. No matter. I mean, it doesn’t ma—well it does, but no matter. That frog from the smorning—well, never mind.” I went wall-eyed for a second as my brain-monkeys shifted gears. “…We should go pick some calzones.” I pointed at the ones hanging from the galumph tree like fruit. Like greasy, pepperonial fruit. One indeed was pepperoni and sausage—my favorite.
So Becasue and I went and picked some calzones.
“But what does a Libyan lesbian have to do with anything right now? Or a Lebanese lesbian? Or a L…?” I started to ask, but trailed off. Two cars were coming up the ridge road. I think they were a pair of Fords but it was just as likely they were two Volkswagen Beetles joined tailpipe-to-tailpipe in an insectly mating stance. (I confuse Fords and Beetles quite often.) And then, as I had feared, it happened again: Both cars suddenly sprouted wings and took to the air. Just like that fruit fly last week. And just like that time four years ago—back when we were young and innocent and infested with COVID-19 spikes.
I grinsped again and held my tongue. I wanted to meep, or yelp, or even start screeching and babbling while gesticulating like an overcaffeinated squirrel. But I held my tongue—tightly. No need to further perturb my huzzey-muffet about this one. Both cars fluttered overhead like drunken butterflies for a few moments. Then they were gone. Becasue looked at me and asked why I had grasped my tongue in hand and looked as if I was trying to pull it out. I didn’t have an answer.
A school of grunions did indeed pass by on the waves. There was no water, but there were waves. The air had become wavy. I couldn’t help myself and started meeping. The grunions transformed into onions. Grunting onions. Then the stars came out even though it was midday. (No, wait—it was sunset.) I stopped meeping. Somewhere, a pair of grunions grunted. I started grunting. I wasn’t the least bit disgruntled but I was perturbed, disturbed, and even turbidurbid. The air continued to mivulate. Then it stopped. Then it was over. I sat back up—I had somehow fallen onto my back and began jactitating while those grunions swam by—and acted as if nothing happened. Judging by Becasue's complete nonreaction to my shenanigans, nothing had in fact happened. I had fabulated the whole episode.
But—where did the grunions go?
No matter. The Sun was probably in Australia now. I thought about those calzones again. I wondered who came up with the idea of folding a pizza in half and sewing it up like a sack—a sack made out of delicious bread and containing delicious, greasy things like pepperoni, sausage, and leaking ball bearings. I really wanted to meet the inventor of the calzone and shake his hand right then. But instead I went back to ogling my huzzey-muffet. No more grunions disturbed us. (But none even had.)
“We’re off… like a herd of turtles!” Someone—or something—suddenly intoned. It wasn’t dark yet like last time. But that made nary a difference. (What did make a difference was Becasue was here this time. And her feet!) I grinsped. My eye stalks darted in all directions. Where was that nefarious turtle-herder this time?
“No! We’re off… like a turd of hurdles!” I shot back. Becasue shot me a look. Her toes stopped wiggling. I pointed my eye stalks at her. “You didn’t hear that!?” She scrunched her nose at me. Her hair reddened a shade. Maybe my girl–chipmunk’s presence also made nary a difference and not a real one.
No matter. We lay back and made out like a pair of grunions in heat.
And then the Moon rose, triumphantly, and started peeing over the horizon, right in the Sun’s face. Off in the distance, the stars screamed for more, more, more. I thought of that poor, apple-biting fruit fly. It had died. It was going to be another confusing night. Shit.