Steely nose
Impaled on May 10, 2026.
That swordfish tried to stab my pillows again this week—stab it with his steely nose, but he just couldn’t kill those beasts.
And then, he returned: That shib-nabbed consarn-fest of derelict potato buddies, frog-blasted manticores, flab-ghasted onanism, and a twelve-year-old’s fry register. He had founded an entire fast food chain making nothingburgers, made a million dollars, then made a billion more, then returned to live out his humble existence at 227 Bouillabaisse Boulevard. Not since the royal wedding of Burger King and Dairy Queen had people been so shocked at the turn of events.
His name was Borb. And now he was my neighbor.
Our experts are predicting an El Niño this year that will be so hot it might scorch the nose hairs right out of my nostrils. But I still blame Jimmy Carter and his peanut obsession for global warming—and global cooling and global dimming. In fact, I blame him for the globe itself. (Why is the Earth not flat? In a sane world, it would be.)
What a time to be alive. What a time to be dead, too!
My experiment in employing A.I. to keep this docile & perfunctory blog updated with farm-fresh, certified organic word salad have failed. Not only have they failed but I haven’t seen this much slop flood my palatial abode since that sewer backup back in 1986—the one that gave my street its characteristic mephitism and then its rather oddball name, both of which persist to this day.