CyScope, Yahoots, Infosunk?
Disheveled on March 16, 2025.
The website was called CyScope and across the navigation bar were the options: Magella, Excited, Yahoots, and Infosunk. I wasn’t sure if I as having a strange dream or this was just an old episode of The X-Files. Scully disheveled and half-naked in front of a computer seemed to settle the question—until that clawed, skinless, eye-ridden succubus suddenly flew out of the screen and tried to eat my corneas right out of my head. Definitely a dream. Maybe it was the ergotism acting up again. At least I didn’t have any tattoos talking to me again like last time.
This week would prove to be dominated by one day, which would occur multiple times just to remind me who was the boss around here.
“Each time you light your lighter, your lighter gets lighter until your lighter gets so light that it won’t light.”
On Thrudsday (this week’s, not last week’s), I carefully explained this paradox to anyone who would listen. Most wouldn’t stop to listen—in fact most ran off rather quickly, doing their best to ignore the screaming man on the sidewalk. (That wasn’t me, I swear. It was Phippil Ronbert Prå again!)
Having run out of passers-by to accost, I skulked home, sulking in my skull, emptied of all piss and vinegar. Seeing no other choice, I then ate one of these: ◊.
It went down smoother than fried moose synapse. It went down smoother than a pie made from fresh crudberries picked with my own three hands! It went down even smoother than blue cheese and yogurt: Live mold and live bacteria together in one delicious cup! But it was also full of spiders, which greatly disturbed me and my anus.
This brought back memories of my dear sister Plårp throwing me in a hole in the ground and filling it full of spiders when I was twelve. There was no way to send those spiders back to the Hell from whence they came, not with my ceiling clock refusing to spring forward even a single minute, let alone the sixty whole minutes this past weekend demanded.
Indeed, I observed many fine paradoxes this week—and even a pair of ducks. They quacked. But they were devoured by a trio of toothy geese. Those geese proved one thing: Not until your eyes shoot across the room like champagne corks would I stop groping for synonyms.
“Blather platter,” I muttered. Another week gone by, another Thrudsday emerging from the muck of my calendar to paint the town red and bloody. Dismembered squirrel scrotums were strewn about. That’ll teach them to bury their nuts in my yard. Karma’s a bitch.
Thrudsday II brought me a dream wherein my big little redheaded huzzey-muffet and my equally red-haired second cousin, 1⅛ times removed, conspired together to step on my face barefoot for eternity. The succubus looked on and tittered devilishly. Then Scully joined in and I woke up.
This brought us to Thrudsday III, where the week ended abruptly.