Seven point four hundred
Unjiggered on January 25, 2026.
[According to the IT Morlocks that plumb the technical depths and intricacies of this web blob so that I don’t have to really know anything about computers, today heralds the release of version 7.400 of Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page. I still have no earthly idea what this increasingly pointy little number means, but the IT Morlocks (especially Blorb, who didn’t actually die in a blogging accident) assure me it’s important and worth tooting my horn about.]
Seven, seven, seventy-seven. What comes next? Eight, seventy-eight, or eighty-eight? The mind wonders. The mind wanders, too. Mine wanders a lot. A moment ago I wanted some roast beef with mint ice cream. Now I want a huzzey-muffet. My huzzey-muffet. In seven minutes (or perhaps fewer), I’ll want that mint ice cream again.
Last night I burned a bunch of pine cones and knick-knacks in a woodstove. Baubles, gewgaws, and tchotchkes. The resinous little shits burned very, very well! But then something went pop! and I fell over. Then I burned some more dibdaubles.
I got on the pot. I shat. But I refused to get off the pot. I stuck my tongue out and made a face befitting a petulant twelve-year-old. So. Sew buttons. I told her we’d be off like a herd of turtles—but she didn’t listen. I ate too much cheese.
With a drib-drab, nibble-nab, suck a dog a-bone!
This ol’ corpse went rolling home!
And now my soft, squishy, big little redheaded huzzey-muffet tastes like mint ice cream.