High as a froth at the anymore
Frothed on March 22, 2026.
Suddenly, I was high. High as a kite. And nothing could be done to bring me down. (I left my Narcan home.) I began to gibber madly, frothing at the nose and toes. I wanted something to gnaw on: Being a mouse was hard work! Much more so than my six-foot-tall man–squirrel days (which were long over). Then I flew yet higher. A mile higher. Gale-force winds tore at my sails: I was a pirate ship, riding the atmospheric rivers until I reached the Moon and then shat on it.
Warily I wiggled, westward and wily, wiggling and wriggling, writhing and surmising, as I went.
I wasn’t a mouse anymore. I was a drowned rat now. Embedded a hundred meters deep in a crater on the Moon named after Chloë Moretz’s feet. After much more flailing, I found myself suddenly encsonced in a chandelier in my ninth living room. Was it soup? Or spoop? Who could say? (I couldn’t.) In either case, it was too spoopy for a Pnårp.
Next Sunday is a fifth Sunday. This Sunday is not a fifth Sunday. Fifth Sundays are so cumbersome. They make my blog ache.
I still remembered the day when hard drives went from 512-byte blocks to 4096-byte blocks. I demanded the President declare it a national holiday but he never wrote back. Instead we ended up with Juneteenth. And Walmartmas.
“Cloud” is the most uselessly overloaded term ever. Not even the thirty-seven definitions I invented for the word “grumpkin” could compare.