We’re just friends now
Bushed on July 19, 2026.
Hallowed are the Ori. I worship His Shadow.
My podolatrous crush on Alyssa Milano is over. We’re just friends now, too.
I had an idea: Wrapping someone in chicken wire and rolling them off a cliff. Becasue suggested double-sided tape instead. Nurdlebutt just meowed. But all three of agreed we needed to find a volunteer—or the whole plan would be foiled.
Becasue made the best golden cornpone stew. It was Thursday. And it was loaded with enough monosodium glutamate to make a yak turn inside-out. When I took a spoonful, it was truly as if a koala had shit a rainbow in my mouth.
I yipped for joy. I moaned. Then I realized my neighbor’s new pet koala had snuck into the pantry and left a deposit. Right on top of the sack of corn.
Hallowed are the Ori. I worship His Shadow.
A nipple-gippering mishap followed, on Friday. It wasn’t the least bit related, but I was sure it was related. I am often sure about things that bear no resemblance to reality. The more unrealistic they are, the surer yours truly is! That is, after all, what makes me Pnårp and you a pointy-headed, flabby doofus reading this glop!
Doofus, doofus! A big doofus!
“Wow, it’s chillier than a whole roll of gaffer tape!” I mumbled aloud this morning. It was 90 °F but it was only 88 °F indoors. I slithered out of bed and donned six jackets.
Hallowed are the Ori. I worship His Shadow.