Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page

Prognosticated after December 16, 2012.

I was feeling a might bit goitrous this Sunday morning when I arose, so before sitting down in repose to compose and then dispose of this past week’s rather imposing blog entry, I picked up my oversized bottle of vitamin Ω and downed half a dozen of the white, ovoid tablets. Sporadic cretinism due to congenital hypothyroidism had been weighing heavily on my mind for weeks now and sure enough, this morning found me chock full of goiter—nearly to the point of bursting. I almost couldn’t fit my neck through the bedroom doorway! Only the hat pin I use for pokin’ and puncturin’ saved the day, it did. I survived the day, I did, but would I soon become a cretin like so many others in my family?

Of course, it didn’t matter, because this coming Friday would be the end of the world.

Yesterday, while noshing upon a pepperoni bagel and an everything pizza and sitting placidly upon my favorite backyard hardwood log, a man came to visit me. I eyed him with my stalk-mounted eyebulbs. (My eye turrets were in the shop.) Unlike mine, his nose was as plain as the nose on my face, but that’s where his ordinariness ended: He wore his somber bolo hat upside-down and he wore his bowler tie hanging from his neck down his back rather than in front. He wore a pair of suspenders in his belt loops and criss-crossed belts across his chest. His shoes were on the wrong feet—they weren’t even on his feet—and his socks were on the outside. And lastly, his moustache was upside-down, his eyes were where his ears belonged, and his ears sprouted from his nostrils (which were where his eyes ought to have been). He was surely a man of contradictions, eccentricity, and entrouade. But I wasn’t sure if he was a panpsychist, a pandeist, a pantheist, or maybe a panentheist. Of course, there were other possibilities: He could have been a hylopathist or even a hylozoist—or a holist or even a holnist. But then I remembered how awful that Kevin Costner movie was, and quickly scratched holnist from the list. Clearly the man was something unusual: The machine elves had told me, and they never lie. But what?

Of course, it didn’t matter, because this coming Friday would be the end of the world.

Two days ago, immediately upon rising from my bed, I ate a whole pound of beans and then downed a whole pound of antacids. Within an hour I began to blowing gas out both ends of myself. By early afternoon, I became rather distressed, and by late afternoon, I was rather compressed—between a rock and a hard place, those prone to metaphoricalistics might say, or between two jets of superheated gas thrusting against each other with a fleshy body stuck in between, mere literalists might instead say. My lovely Ravna giggled at my predicament; the silliness of it all, she said, reminded her of Mayor Julian Rhoodie’s campaign promise on behalf of the genuine poo industry to ban shampoo anywhere within the city limits. My squawking protestations at Ravna’s schadenfreudian mockery, interrupted by alternating volleys of eructation and flatulation, only egged her on. If only I had some stuffleupagus eggs right then, I would’ve shown her!

Of course, it didn’t matter, because this coming Friday would be the end of the world.

Three days ago, I picked up four D-cell batteries and tried to electrocute myself with them. I failed but I did set my tongue on fire. My voluptuous Loquisha giggled at my predicament; the silliness of it all, she said, reminder her of the eructo-flatulent tirade that I went on two days ago (just with more flames and shrieking and babbling and running around with arms flailing). My squawking protestations that Loquisha had never informed me that she was a time traveler only egged her on. Luckily, unlike two days ago, I had some goose eggs on me right then—and I let fly with gusto and glee! I sure showed her! Egg on her face—and all over a lot of other places, too!—she left in a miffy huff; worse luck, she took her sandals with her. I wondered if she’d be coming back.

Of course, it didn’t matter, because this coming Friday would be the end of the world.

Four days ago was really yesterday all over again, so there was nothing much for me to say about it except to sardonically thank my be-sandaled, ebony goddess for getting me stuck in a bizarre alternate timeline where yesterday was four days ago, four days ago was yesterday, and Abraham Lincoln was never assassinated, lived to be 120 years old, led the first Mars mission in 1929, and discovered the cure to old age (so he’s actually still alive today… on Mars). By 1935, everyone was immortal and stopped having children (except for dinner), which caused me to never be born—which in turn landed me right back in this timeline since I did not exist in the other one. Adolf Hitler didn’t either, which meant that Hitler never started WWII and never committed suicide, which in turn meant that Adolf Hitler was still alive and well, living out his immortal days in the Deutsche Mondbasis in Mare Imbrium.

Later that night Loquisha told me that I should really stop gulping down so much vitamin Ω. She then swatted me playfully with her left sandal, and things went uphill from there…

Of course, it didn’t matter, because this coming Friday would be the end of the world.

Five days ago and also late at night, while drunkenly stumbling down Stubblebine Street like a stumblebum running woozily from a bumblebee, I happened upon a dark expanse along the sidewalk—one of those places just far enough between two street lamps that the respective cones of light don’t quite meet, and the contrast of light and dark causes the inky blackness to appear all the more inky and octopus-like. My urticating hairs stood on end and my Spidey Sense tingled: What lurking horrors lurked in the lurky darkness lurking ahead? Knowing that attempting to circumnavigate the darkness by stepping out into the deserted street would be the death of me (for reasons unknown and unknowable, but most likely involving tacky, inflatable lawn ornaments shaped like Santa Claus and Britney Spears), I decided my only course of action was to ford the darkened sidewalk as quickly and as panicky as possible. Raising my arms in preparation for a mad flailing, inhaling deeply to begin the most girliest of shrieks, I leaned forward and dove into the abyss.

Fortunately there were no slimy (yet strangely erotic) tentacle-monsters nor any iridescent green bubble-congeries waiting to seize my fatty, Pnårpulent body and drag it down into the depths of madness. No Lovecraftian ur-beasties were poised to devour me nor drive me to despairing erotolepsy. Neither the wolves of Périgord nor the Tsavo Man-Eaters skulked amongst the shadows waiting to maul me, nor was my raven-haired Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir and her dentated vagina even present in order to nuzzle and gnaw upon my flesh. Indeed, I made it back into the light again suffering nothing more than a bit of hoarseness… and a heapin’ helpin’ of horrible embarrassment when I realized that a gaggle of Winchester geese had been watching me the whole time from the other side of Stubblebine Street! Now they were pointing and tittering away at my effete display of effeminacy. I turned redder than a well-spanked buttocks and skittered on home like a frightened turtle. Would I ever live this down?

Of course, it didn’t matter, because this coming Friday would be the end of the world.

Six days ago, I found the entire Legio IX Hispana hiding behind my coffee pot. It was the Purple Nurple Fairy who told me to look for the legion was there. “Purple! Nurple!” I spake twice and “Nurples that are purple!” once to complete the chant that summoned Her from the nipplious, purpurineal depths of twospace. I looked down at my own. I wondered how purple they would get as a result of my always-on nurple-clamps. But that was neither here nor there now—an entire miniaturized Roman legion was hiding out behind my sputtering, nuttering coffee pot, and I had to do something about it! What would I do? Should I baste my turkeys again, or mince my moonmeats? Should I offer them a plate of scones, or a spate of cornpones? Was Nicki Minaj’s “Come on a Cone” appropriate here, or just a bundle of porncones? I recalled then, rather abruptly, that my incunabulum was coming along nicely; it was at nearly 666 pages and showed no signs of growing at a slower pace.

“Gangli-igloos indeed!” I realized right then. A eureka moment if there ever was one. My kerfrumpt was contentedly crunching on an emu femur, or surely she would have curiously curled her eating-snout at me again.

The rest of the day, I must admit, made even less sense, especially after I mixed up my bottles of vitamin Ω and dimethyltryptamine supplements, and gulped down several tablets from one thinking the squirrelous little pills were from t’other. The popping, plimmering machine elves ćontinued to çlank and shuffle along nonetheless, riding atop their oliphaunts and hippoderms, as always all microscopic cogs in the catastrophic plan which the Skin-Taker had set in motion vigintillions of æons ago—before mankind even glittered and strutted upon the stage.

The Skin-Taker would own us all in the end, gnawing upon our skins and gnashing us between his horizontal-sliding jaws. There was nothing to be done—nothing that could stop it. Yet, much like ζ² Reticuli glimmering out from amidst the dense debris disk that occulted it for millennia, there was hope. Indeed: There was nothing that I couldn’t do that couldn’t be done, I realized, and then I went on out and did it, and did it, and did it all again. In the vainglorious, hooting, tooting end, not just the horse-skinned hippoderms and elephant-skinned oliphaunts, but the diprotodons and diprotons and dineutrons too would tap dance out the muldersome, scullious cadence of the bouncing, bridling buttocks of dordish damnation—and usher in the Aquarian Age of Chloë Moretz’s Bare Feet. The dinosaurs would lose, the Dinosaucers too, and mighty Chloë would prevail. Eee. Aaa. Ork. Åaåaårp. M’niff. M’niff. Yiff. Yeef—

It was a coffee ground, all right: But it floated. I couldn’t understand how it could float but it did. Coffee grounds are not supposed to float. I got mad…

Of course, it didn’t matter, because this coming Friday would be the end of the world: