A nipple that could nibble
Nuzzled on August 25, 2024.
Sigmund Freud had posited the vagina dentata. But I wondered more about a nipple that could nibble on things. Becasue was still mad at me, so there was no possible help there. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Perhaps I should just go eat some worms.
But then there was that bout of unmitigated horsedongery that started on Wednesday and led to an eggplant shortage by Saturday. Without any eggplants, how was I going to attract any worms? Mind you, this isn’t related to that bitbucketing accident that transpired at the buttbuckets in the Spend-O-Mart parking lot—damn, was that one a falutin’ doozy!—but some people just need more convincing than others. And that’s how and why store manager Borb McBorbley, always a fan of a diet of worms himself, fashioned that eggplant into the shape of a—
The Spend-O-Mart was all out of fish, wraps, and even fish wraps. (And of course—worms.) But that didn’t stop me from voting with my feet. (Sadly, Becasue was withholding hers.) Yet still I wondered about that nipple-nibbling. Had there ever been a nipple-nibbling accident? Surely, somewhere. But when? And how? And whose nipples? And to what end? And why and wherefore and were any supernumerary?
These curious inquiries demanded answers, which is why I went mud-snorkeling in the Whatanagawatchee Swamp again. The mosquitoes were fierce but those brain-eating amoebas knew to stay the hecklegroober away from a bad moomerjoomer like me! Hoo-yeah! Woo-wah! Grr—fnork! Kid Nork!! Mind you, I did lose a battle to a rather piqued snapping turtle. That explained some of the things I came back from the swamp without—but I didn’t mind. Becasue and I would be having turtle soup for dinner for days. It would grow back. And this Pnårp would smell like that swamp for a week. But at least it would keep the skunks (and skinks) away from me.
This still didn’t answer that nipply query. And apparently stoats are attracted to things that smell like a swamp, so I’ve a new problem with which to contend. But there was one consistent answer to all of life’s problems: Sink back into the mud from whence one came. And so I did so.
Mind you, that oblative was obligatory, just as that obligation had been oblatory. My oblation ablated, yet more was still oblative, and… I would bloviate further on this but just now noticed that those were perfect anagrams and that distracted me and I lost my train of thought and the caboose just slammed into the back of my head and my brain popped out my nose and now I have to find my organ-cramming tool and jam it back in there whence it came. (I like the word “whence,” if you can’t tell.)
“He bloviates about oblation…” I mused to myself, aloud. My potted plants however would have none of it and threatened to once again leap from their pots and pummel me into the pavement. No nipple-nibbling there. Mind you, brandishing my weed-whacker at them usually cowed the little buggers back into their pots. This time was no different. (Except this time I accidentally whacked off something that wasn’t a weed. But I didn’t mind. It would grow back.)
A nude Kim Kardashian may not have been riding that tiger, but J. Edgar Hoover came to me in a dream dressed like Kim Kardashian (heels and all). This left me nonplussed, bemused, and other words my Editor tells me will only confuse—nonplus and bemuse!—my readers. (This means you, pointy.) Ornery ol’ Hoover warned me to be on the lookout for vacuum cleaners named after him. When I told him I swore off vacuum cleaners back in ’88 after a particularly bad dust-bunnying accident, he broke into song, which I took as my cue to wake up. Screaming. Oh, the horror—the horror.
Ba‘al balls and Laineyballs were scattered around the floor of my bedroom like balls scattered around a floor. My lights were all turned off, but my Daffy Duck nightlight shown with a sickly, lurid glow. My huzzey-muffet was nowhere in sight. Fighting down panic (and gnomes trying to scramble up the bedposts), I bolted from the bed, avoided numerous concussions, dodged the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, but then—worse luck!—tripped over a singularly turgid Laineyball. I hit my head on the corner of the ceiling hard enough to knock my brains into next Threesday. And then, as little cartoon birdies circled my leaking head, I learned my clawed, skinless, eye-ridden demoness—who had haunted my dreams for so long—had not abandoned me. Ba‘al, lord of succubi, had cast her back down to Hell. No demon, no incubus, not even that female Babadook could break her out of—
Then I bolted from my bed again—fully awake with brains still firmly wedged inside my skull where they belonged. Becasue was still nowhere in sight. The bathroom light was on, the door closed—but that was just some bubbly shuggoths lurking about my palatial abode in these wee hours again. I wondered: Did Ba‘al, my succubus, or even Babadooka abscond with my lovely Becasue?
Then I awoke a third time. Sighing at how tedious this was becoming, I lay back down and implored the demons and gnomes and demon-gnomes to just come and take me. Get it over with! Drag me off to the underworld by my nipples—see if I care!
Then I awoke a fourth time. I looked sadly over at my old telephone. I was sure he was responsible. “This is what happens when I let my fingers do the walking,” I whispered. But it was dawn: In the distance, cockles cackled. Loons whooped it up. Even the titmice tittered. But no one would tweet anymore, not since that assemblage of tomfoolery had been reduced to a single, half-doubled saltire. And now I wanted some Saltines.
This is indeed what happens when I let my fingers do the walking.