How does blue cheese go bad?
Reposed on September 1, 2024.
My breakfast of fried moose synapse, garloid cecum, and coffee sweetened with coal tar was complete. I sat down, uncrossed my silverware, and noshed heartily upon it. Horrifying creatures watched me from the shadows, waiting for me to let my guard down. And Becasue watched them. Or at least I believe that’s what she was watching. Or perhaps she was watching something on the television. (We still have one of those!) Regardless, I remained hypervigilant as I noshed heartily and noisily—every muscle, tendon, ligament, and synapse in my body taut as a drumhead. I knew that, at any moment, if I made one false move—or even possibly a true move—my time on doG’s green Earth could come to an abrupt end. An abrupt—screaming, thrashing, tearing, gnashing, gnawing, rending, howling, crunching, munching, slurping, and belching—end.
My luck still running high, nothing of the sort happened. I even stuck my tongue out and made puerile faces at the fiends, and nothing happened. Becasue continued watching the television, ignoring my antics and deliciously discalced as always. Fastbreaking complete, I sunk slowly below my kitchen table and wormed my way out of the kitchen—into the living room—making low, muffled noises a Pnårp uses to attract fresh garloids.
Then, I got to thinkin’: Planning out today’s blunch, lunch, blinner, dinner, blupper, and supper. After all of those would come a midnight snack of homemade blue cheese, homemade green bread, and then at 1 a.m., Cheez-Its that had been soaked in industrial degreaser to get all the grease out of them (but not the cheese, of course). When tomorrow morning comes, I would have another breakfast: My fast would be broken—into thousands of tiny little pieces!—by a savory meal consisting of unscrambled garefowl eggs, garloid thyroids, and more coffee adulterated with fine, powdered creosote derivative. Those terrifying silithicine shadow-dwellers would continue to watch me balefully from the wainscoting, and Becasue would watch me, watch them, watch me watch them, watch me watch her, watch me watch her watching television barefoot, and hopefully not get eaten herself.
Truly there was nothing more a Pnårp could ask for in life.
Next week, I need to have my palatial 157-room abode fumigated. Monday’s attempts to deal with the problem by spraying Prius repellent all over the place were met with failure. (And ridicule. So much ridicule.) The one constant in every successful endeavor is that I am never a part of it, I remembered painfully. The silverfish, golden cockroaches, and platinum bedbugs are still infesting every nook and cranny of my home, and I was no closer to solving the mystery of that grim-faced, lantern-jawed Big Ugly that keeps peeping in my windows when we’re sleeping. But at least there won’t be a Prius within 157 miles of Bouillabaisse Boulevard for months! And now I was sure of one thing: I really want some hot Babadook booty right about now.
Things were unraveling, and it wasn’t just my old shirts and underwear this time. Everything was coming apart at the seams. Everything was coming unhinged. Indeed in ancient starlight I lay in repose. Something was amiss, afoul, and even a fowl—that damned man in the chicken suit had returned to cast his galline shadow across my life. I only had one choice: Demand my IT Morlocks add JSON-LD to my docile & perfunctory blog so I could join the vast sea of content on the so-called Semantic Web.
I lived in the starlight: Where Chance tears and bends, where ones finds oneself cresting along the p-branes and secretion disks of bleeding pulsars, where in that ancient starlight I lay in repose.
Thoughts of a vigorous pegging by Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Greta Thunberg brought me back to my senses. Those mushrooms growing out of that blue cheese and green bread sure packed a wallop!
Someone asked me once, “Where do you get your ideas, Pnårp?” I shot back: “How does blue cheese go bad? Does it get less moldy?”
Someone asked me once, “Will you ever stop writing, Pnårp?” I shot back: “Did you know that ‘Dammit, I’m mad!’ spelled backwards is still ‘Dammit, I’m mad!’?”
Someone asked me once, “Would you like a bowl of Spaghetti-Os, Pnårp?” I shot back: “Did you hear about the Italian chef that died? He pasta way. You never sausage a tragic thing. We cannoli do so much—his legacy will be a pizza history—”
This is when that someone stopped talking to me.