Podolatrous wamables and a bald pie
Crapped out on August 30, 2026.
“Arglebargle!? Or foofaraw!?!”
Well, arglebargle my foofaraws! Another Sunday numbering five on the calendar has arrived! What to do, what to do?
My podolatrous infatuation with all five Spice Girls nor my ravenous podolatry of Nicki Minaj seemed like an appropriate topic to broach today, so I refrained from doing so. (Except here. Drat.) Nicki Minaj’s wamables then came to mind, but all that did was make me want my own wamables.
“Piebald”? Well, the pie was bald after I shaved the mold off it. Then it was a fresh, young-looking pie again. So I ate it.
Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. Time bananas like a fox. Foxes just plain outfox me. They’re smart like that. Especially when they steal my bananas (and bandanas) to outfox me.
Realizing that “Mike the Headless Chicken” scanned just like “Puff the Magic Dragon” on Monday set a new life goal for me. I went to work on the lyrics at once.
I didn’t get past the first line before I was reminded that I have little ability to string more than ten words together before the sentence decoheres into a jelly-like, non-Newtonian fluid. And so, forlornly and with much whispered cursing and fulminating, I put the song aside—yet vowed to return to it one day. One day before I die. (The day after I die would surely be too late.)
You want the lips and the curves, need the whips and the furs? Well, so do I.