Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page

Made merry on December 25, 2005.

Today being Christmas, I lit a bunch of W-shaped candles, hung them from the elm tree I had cut down and put in my living room along with a bucket of tinsel beside it, and then accidentally burned my house down again. Dingleberry, dingleberry, dingleberry… hamster! Today being Christmas, I got a whole pile of mail from all my friends (and enemies)—Christmas cards, most of them were, but one was a postcard that simply said “Baa-Baa Booey!” on it in gold lettering with silver gonads sprinkled about it. Gonads and strife. I blamed the squirrelly lawn gnomes for that one, even though the ceramic fiends had been crushed and shattered in my front lawn for days now.

Today being Christmas, poor, miserable Mr. Wilson sent me a card from Hell: He’s still dead, apparently, and still being tortured by snakes or serpents or some such slithery, scaly things. Damn Samuel Dreckers and seventeen generations of his offspring, ancestors, and kitty cats!

And horndogs, too.

Today still being Christmas (unlike that Sunday back in March where my calendar tricked me into thinking it was Christmas eve!), my ex–dear brother Grårp, moldering old zombie that he is, sent me a card too, also from Hell: He wished me a merry Christmas, and offered to polish my hamster dingleberries for me. I had to turn him down: My hamsters’ dingleberries are just fine, and I don’t plan on going back to Hell anytime soon, no matter how often people tell me to do so!

And my dear friend, Thaddeus C.L. Harshbarger, the haberdasher, sent me a postcard from northern California: It was a picture of a moose fornicating with a squirrel-fox-dingo. Mr. Harshbarger, the haberdasher, always loved pictures of those squirrel-fox-dingoes. The card said “Go suck a moose, Phillip!” on the back of it, written in an elegant cursive hand. I cut the card into eighteen pieces and ate them all, except one—I sent that one back to Mr. Harshbarger (the haberdasher) with “Thanks, you fat glob of turkey stuffing!” written in my own cerebral fluids on it.

And my dear, dear sister Pollyanna Louisa Årp (we call her Plårp, naturally) sent me another collection of horsefeathers and flunkery, wrapped in orange spheres of mouse dung. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this before—and I’ve mentioned a lot on this useless old website of mine over the hurly-burly years—but my dear, dear sister Plårp has the cutest feet I’ve ever seen! Alyssa Milano, eat your toes out.

Merry Christmas from Pnårp, dear readers! I’d have Christmas presents for you all (and Grårp and Plårp and poor Mr. Wilson and Samuel Dreckers and little sandal-footed Loquisha and Mr. Harshbarger [the haberdasher] and even the Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg whom I think is also a zombie now, too), if the garden gnomes hadn’t stolen my epithelial cell walls the last time they flayed me a visit! …Bamboozled!

Dingleberry hamsters!!