Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page

Burbled on November 16, 2025.

Hop! Quick! Skip! Jump! That’s it! Put your nose into it! With a pop! and a squeak! this bloop ontry is blasted. That’s the ticket—put your nose into it, man!

Plop! Squick! Norb! Dongle! Dugongs abound in my butt canals! They lurk—upon the wainscoting they lurk! I walk alone. But I still need to sraighten all my Christmas lights. The squirrels keep knocking them all askew. This has to stop! (Butt dugongs.)

Spex, spox, spadix, and spoo. Too-rah loo-rah loo? My dormfuddies were in a knot. But not as bad as Becasue’s panties after finding another potato hiding in the back of my expansive pantry.

A car path spread out in front of me. A Carpathian car path. Not as threatening as the last time I stared down those mountains. But it’ll suffice. It’ll do. It’ll do all right—it’ll do damned right. Off in the distance, a car barked. Dogs honked their horns. I honked my nose. Then I blew a goose out my nostrils. Geese have nostrils but they don’t have a nose. They do however have a big long bill that looks like a nose. But that’s where their mouth is! Noses and nostrils are all so confusing to me sometimes.

I once visited Norstrilia thinking it was actually “Nostrilia.” Many laughs were had over my confusion.

My bloop was finagled to the brim with asquivering valiences again, a little fnordie told me. He continued: With slap-fern day fast approaching, what was I to do aforehand? I was dead—deceased—pushin’ up psychotropic daisies, in fact. Was I pining for the fjords, though? No—but that fnord did smell like a pine tree. A pine tree infested with flesh-eating mushrooms.

Florm bloop a googol askivver! Skivvernivvers scythed through the air. I respoolved to practice my slapferndaisical midwitteries. It was flast a-broaching!

I wished those colorless green ideas would sleep more quietly. All that furious snoring and snorting was getting on my nerves. And I have far too many nerves to get on!

Then I, grasping an entire stick of pepperoni in my left hand, in the manner of a man strangling a belligerent goose, clambered clam-like onto my roolf. Resolving to further surreality, I bit the top off that stick of pepperoni, not unlike a man biting off the head of a belligerent goose that just wouldn’t die from strangulation fast enough. Spend-O-Mart pepperoni—“Now with 15% fewer lips & assholes!”—always hit the spot. The greasy, oily spot.

I recited this—turgidly, I might add—while moobling down the sidewalk this morning. People stared. A passer-by told me I should stick to talking to myself about puppy biscuits. Then I remembered I’m still dead (and buried!). So I went back to reciting turgid poetry to myself in my eternal slumber.