A stochasity even fewer yclept
Rejiggered on January 11, 2026.
2025 seemed awful fake to me. Hopefully 2026 will seem more real. Perhaps it will even be real—truly a refreshing change!
I really tried this week not to sing songs about poison ivy, but I failed miserably. Four hundred comes in two weeks. That will break my skull as if it were made out of thin, calciferous bone. But it’s actually made of titanium and bismuth, so that shan’t happen. Sha’t?
Training my houseplants to follow me around the house was proving to be a spectacular failure. The photonastic little buggers had that down pat, turning their splended heads toward the Sun as she rode her flaming chariot across the heavens. But try as I might, I couldn’t convince the nasty little buggers to get out of their pots and come for a stroll with me. “Shit or get off the pot!” I would shout, but they would just stare forlornly at me, their petals asplay and their stamens drooping shamefully. Thigmonasty eluded them.
If not for photonasty, what of nostopathy? That’s a silly one: Who would fear returning home? Home is where the hork is. I shouted a few more times at my houseplants, then decided to give them all random names I pulled from a 1995 phone book I found propping up one leg of my toilet last week.
And what of photo nasties? The mind wonders. The mind wanders, too. But now my huzzey-muffet wants attention so this blog has come to an abrupt, ignominious end.