Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page

Carpetbagged on November 14, 2010.

Immediately upon hearing such musical tooting erupting from my bed cushions, I bolted from my computering chair (where I had been engaged once again in a bit of parsimonious grumnuttery) and sprinted toward the bathroom, hooting in abject fright as I did so. Tooting and hooting. Hooting and tooting. You see, it appeared that another massive farting spree was upon me!

So into the bathroom I flew like a flash—tore open the toilet seat, and made a big splash!

Luckily, the aforementioned big splash seemed to be both the beginning and the end of today’s dysplumbious experience: If a farting spree had indeed been upon me, by this point I should have been blown clear through the ceiling of my palatial abode and begun traveling upon a graceful parabolic arc toward points unknown, buttocks aflutter with gluteally maximal thrust.

But nothing more had happened, so I relaxed.

I stood up. I flushed.

I looked at the calendar glued to my ceiling, and the clock dangling beneath it.

Wednesday, November 10, and only a few minutes past nine o’crock in the morning.

Then I looked out the window… and what I saw dismayed me.

Over one whole week since Mayor Julian Rhoodie had won reelection, and still his campaign promises of “Bigger family values!”, “A microchip for every American’s skull!”, and “A street corner on every cop!” hadn’t been fulfilled. Well, then! It would surely be the last time I would ever vote for that pandering, curiosity-breeding little joker, that was for sure!

In fact, that curiosity-breeding little joker deserved more than just yours truly casting a vote for his opponent next time around—even if Rhoodie’s opponent was another potted hydrangea like this time—in fact, I had half a mind to smarch right down to city hall right now and give that no-good philanderer a piece of my mind! (The half that I had, of course.)

“That’s it!” I resolved at once, my nose set with grim determination. I galloped to one of my best bedrooms in order to find my best suit and an even better necktie. Naturally, the gorillas got in my way—bellowing and chest-thumping as they always do—but one quick hand signal followed by a bit of chest-thumping of my own, and off they went to find Ravna to give her a good ooh-oohing and aah-aahing. That hiccup dealt with tidily, I donned my orange leisure suit and green bolo tie, grabbed my punctilious little triangular briefcase, and darted out the door faster than a Taco Bell chalupa ejected from the stomach of a dyspeptic old man.

Into my car I flew—there was no time to lose!—and down Bouillabaisse Boulevard I sped, toward Hegelian Avenue where city hall was located in all its filibusterous glory. Nothing would stop me now: Not even that damned Mr. Wilson trying to use the crosswalk at the intersection of Pinnfarben Street and Alpha Ralpha Boulevard. Hah! Hope he has some good insurance!

Tires screeching, my car careened into the city hall parking lot, flipped over, and burst into flames. Fortunately, I had dove out the open window in front of the courthouse, so I have no injuries to report. (None to myself, at least: That gaggle of bureaucrats smoking out in the parking lot is another matter!)

I sauntered into city hall and nonchalantly asked to speak with His Most Honorable Excellency, Mayor Julian Rhoodie. His secretary gnomishly took my name and told me to go wait in the bathroom. It seemed they’d had a flood in the waiting room due to a stopped-up toilet, so the only place I could wait was in the bathroom, in the outgoing mail tray, or out in the parking lot. The mail tray was obviously too small to hold as formidable an individual as myself. And a quick glance out the window told me that unless I wanted to waddle home with third- and fourth-degree burns, waiting out in the conflagration that used to be the city hall parking lot would be a bad idea. So, the bathroom it was: And maybe by the time Rhoodie waddled back into the office, I’d have a nice little gift for him floating in one of city hall’s finest toilets!

While waiting, I went over my plan in my head: First, ask Rhoodie about repealing that annoying hit-and-run law—at least if the victim’s last name was Wilson. Second, ask about repealing whatever annoying little laws might cover crashing a car into a gaggle of city employees and causing a four-alarm fire in a city parking lot. (On second thought, that might be a five-alarmer out there by now…) Third, demand that Rhoodie decree that December 19 shall henceforth be known as Alyssa Milano Day, and further demand that yours truly be put in charge of organizing the celebration. And we all know that Pnårp knows how to throw a party!

Finally, if all of these points went well, I’d tell tell the curiosity-breeding little philanderer what I really thought of him!

Hours passed, and still I waited—and still I deposited more and more gifts into the porcelain gift basket upon which I sat. I had no idea I was so full of it… but I suppose being in the hallowed halls of my little town’s government brought out the best in me. Plop, plop, plop! Splash, splash, splash!

“The mayor will see you now,” a garden gnome suddenly announced as he darted across the tile, quickly disappearing down a drain before I could catch him and gnaw upon his juicy, juicy corpse.

I stood up. I flushed.

Amid rising water, I smarched right on out of that bathroom and into the mayor’s office, and—

Not since Pope John Paul II, in an asymptotically orgasmic bout of goonflayvination, had beatified every redheaded female in Spread Eagle, Wisconsin, had I been so mulpiciously bamboozled!