Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page

Beaned on March 27, 2011.

Cool beans. Beans… that are cool.

And thus the week of March 21–27 sprang upon me: Not with a pop, nor a fizzle, but with a snap, a crackle, and a pop. (Okay, okay, it did include a pop.) My choice to quack like a duck hepped up on steroids proved equally as fruitless as rotating in place had last week, so instead I decided, much like Thomas Jefferson had suggested so long ago, to clatter my floozies only after I had closed my oven door. This too yielded few fruitful results, although I did soon learn that, when in the course of human events, Technicolor horse testicles descend from the sky, it’s time to pack it in and head for northern California.

Ham-fisted attempts at turning this blog entry into a cheesy clip show out of the way (at least for this week… but what of next?), I returned home and spent the evening pondering relentlessly bizarre questions such as why “caregiver” and “caretaker” seem to mean the exact same thing, if Alyssa Milano really had more toes than the combined forces of the Spice Girls, and if the so-called “Second Coming” merely meant that Jesus was capable of multiple orgasms. Furthermore, what of that hot lesbian scene with Dana Scully and Marita Covarrubias that I’d seen on TV years ago? What role did it play in the demise of the unlucky 13^th Earl of Gurney? I vowed I would find out at once… but try not to die trying this time.

Thursday rolled around in the hay, and once again my crack team of gnomish EMTs were required to resuscitate me. From what I could gather from the greenish-yellow splatter marks all over the walls of my palatial abode, I must have had a run-in with a fnordvark at some point during my relentless quest—an encounter that nearly cost me every jar of guacamole that I had stashed away in my drop ceiling for emergencies! (Either that, or it was just glargoyle blood. But when was the last time a glargoyle was seen in these parts?)

Fnordvarks aside, I gasped in horror Friday night when I discovered, amidst ooga-googling for myself in every corner of the Internet (how else would I keep from losing myself again and again?), that the “Pakistan Navy Aircraft Recovery Program” had attempted to usurp my precious nickname and claim it as its own! Memories of PNARP.SYS bouncing around my cranium faster than even Jada Fire’s big bare black butt could bounce, I resolved at once that my only choice would be to establish complete air superiority over this impoverished central Asian nation, even if it meant bombing them back into the Pleistocene.

And then Saturday (née Slatternday, until Þrúðr’s disastrous dirigible-submerging accident reset all the days of week back to their original names) rolled around in the hay with Thursday. Once again my gnomish EMTs revived my putrescent body before it was too late, forcing my escaped soul back where it belonged by jamming it through the tiny, sphinctered opening at the base of my spine. It would seem that one man, when his only weapons were a kookely-wanger poised threateningly in one hand and a sack of goat beans clutched in the other (cool goat beans, mind you!), could not defeat even the paltry Pakistani Navy, no matter his determination—no matter how grimly set his nose!

I sang this little ditty this morning to my new neighbor’s flower pots, wearing a sprig of pepperoni around my neck and a slice of parsley jammed up my middle nostril. He gave me an A for effort, but pelted me with every other letter of the alphabet (each written on a stone just big enough to crack one’s skull if hurled with sufficient skill) for singing this to him at 03:56 a.m.

I fled back indoors, yelping like a pincer monkey that suddenly found itself outpinched by a battalion of earwigs. I oozed greenish-yellow blood from my pulverized cranium. Tumors then suddenly erupted from my spleen, thyroid, hyoid, and both the head and tail of my trusty old pancreas: An onionous sign if there ever was one. Much to my chagrin, lint started pouring out of my bellybutton by the bushel, furthering my realization that yet another spate of ominous signs were upon me. I goonflayvined loudly, this time yelping like a miniature Carpathian Crapping Hound. I threw my hands in the air and caution to the wind. Dinglebuckey sailed through the air and hit the wall with a squickening thud. Realizing my head was thoroughly built right into my neck, I did the only thing I could: I changed the channel on my expertly-built FM radio to 109.9 where “B33920” by Murderdeathcock was playing. The sweet, sonorous sounds of my favorite genocide-metal band soothed my nerves enough for me to finally relax and bleed out completely.

In closing, I would like to note that one man alone cannot fight the future, but two can play tiddlywinks together. And three make a fine circlejerk. But what of Jesus? Is four too many? Well, one thing was for sure: I would soon be going to Hell for even pondering such a ponderable—or perhaps northern California, the closest thing to Hell we have available on this fine planet of ours, if my dear departed brother Grårp were to be believed. Goodnight, you salivating crotch-salamanders of damnation!