Gutless clams and detached ladybugs
Tooted out on August 2, 2026.
Do tutors actually toot? Do they toot a lot?
Once I had to shoot a man in my underwear. I still don’t know how he got in my underwear. Or how both of us fit in them.
Midweek I had a dream: I swam lithely among the gutless clams and squat, scuttling lobsters of the deepest hydrothermal vents, a clam myself. Not a gutless clam though—I was a gutted clam myself. My reverie was interrupted by a swarm of Lindsey Graham’s ladybugs spiraling through the water toward my own posterior. I awoke screaming. Screaming.
I learned to speak Zaum this week, a language consisting of neologisms that mean nothing. It’s the perfect language for me! It goes perfectly with my study of myrionics and fascination with amphilogy.
An insect was horseflying and houseflying about my house (and horse). (Yes, I have a horse now. (His name is Horsey.)) I got my flyswatter and chased the insect down, but it turned out to not be a fly, so the flyswatter was ineffective. It was another detached ladybug. I awoke screaming. Screaming.
This blog’s writing is tighter than a drum. It’s tighter than a twelve-year-old back injury. It’s even tighter than Becasue’s collar. But I have to loosen up or I’m going to break my knuckles from all this twickling.
Nar! Shar-boobly! Niz-bubbit! Bubb-nizzit! Nar-Bibbly the Moon Rock! A nut-bubbet! A-bubba-nubbitt! Nizniz! Nizgidget! Nizgidge Ridge!
Spooforn. Poophorn. Do gone. Boob torn. Loop porn.
Rootie toot toot, three moobs in a boot!