We were bipedal murder chickens
Corned on December 11, 2022.
Christmas continues its inexorable approach, followed by other increasingly foreboding high holy days, the names of which are too fearsome to be mentioned. Santa Claus, that hoary old gnome, stirs in his frozen cavern at the North Pole and waits for the right time to reemerge. He waits to rain terror and toys for tots down upon us all.
My suggestion of ghast repellent for my neighbor’s night terrors ultimately went awry last week when, in the midst of one of the man’s screeching 3 a.m. panics, he plunged gibbering into his garage to fetch a can of the stuff but mistakenly returned to his bedroom with a blowtorch. He then proceeded to set his ceiling ablaze. His house didn’t burn down but most of it did burn up—with him in it. At least I have an alibi! And at least it isn’t my house that burned down (or up) this time (with me in it). At least I have an alibi—plenty of alibis, in fact!
I constantly end up with new new neighbors. It’s depressing, really. All my old new neighbors leave, die, disappear, or go mad and end up in the nut house on Macadamia Street. Or worse: In the belly of a carnivorous goose. Or worst of all: In the belly of a fat, old gnome from the North Pole.
My own night terrors took on a new form on Tuesday: A man on stilts, dressed as Uncle Sam, nearly nine feet tall, looming over me. Patriotic American music played in the background—an orchestra of hollow dead men, wraiths, and zombies, with instruments made of the bleached bones of our forefathers and their vanquished enemies. Uncle Sam’s face was all jaw, and his square jaw all teeth, gnashing, sliding sideways, gnashing, gnawing. I finally broke free of my paralysis, awoke in my own screeching panic at 3:03 a.m., and attempted to set my own ceiling ablaze. Alas my blowtorch had been replaced with an oversized can of shaving cream, so this ill-thought-out plan of attack was met with failure. My ceiling remained intact—not the least bit ablaze. I slunk back to bed and hid under the covers in shame. My ceiling dripped foam. Better luck next time.
“Don’t get gassed like a hybrid.” Good advice.
By Wednesday, the last of the equephagous geese had migrated over to another neighborhood. Bouillabaisse Boulevard had run out of zebras. No more zebras schronking by my window. No more snarling, razor-toothed geese leaping upon their backs and devouring them like lions in the Serengeti. No more bloody and broken zebra corpses littering the street and sidewalk, clogging the storm drains with gore, and attracting even more flies than the Great Rotten Fishpile of 2022. No more vicious honking and crunching and terrified neighing and whinnying at 3 a.m. as the geese swarmed and devoured their prey still alive and kicking.
Humans were actually four-eyed dinosaurs that were killed by humans, then changed into humans because we were too dangerous—because we were bipedal murder chickens. And as bipedal murder chickens, we spread out across the Earth worse than a plague of razor-toothed geese, and ate everything in our path. Not just the poor zebras. All the other equids too. One day the whole world will be covered by the beaks and teeth and jaws and claws of us bipedal murder chickens. And then we will have no choice but to eat each other.
The King James Version of the Bible is composed of 788,258 words. Pnårp’s docile & perfunctory page is composed of 387,864. I still have a lot to write. I still have a lot to write. I still have a lot to write.
And a lot of pepperoni to eat.
Each and every word in this docile & perfunctory blog is carefully chosen from a vast collection of words known as the dictionary, painstakingly constructed on a manual keyboard, letter by letter, and then deposited at the tail end of a gigantic XML file with the utmost care. These words are constructed into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs, and the paragraphs into whole entries. My IT Morlocks, in conjunction with an army of Transnistrian Transforming Gnomes and something called a “makefile,” then convert this fileful of word salad into a delicious tag soup. Lastly, a team of oxen is required to drag the whole assemblage of bloggery up onto its web server—where it rests softly, steaming lightly, until my teeming hordes of readers lay their dozens of unblinking eyes upon it. Upon completion of all these steps, prayers and sacrifices are made to the Owl Gods and the dread god Ka‘ū.
Shockingly, whereas the logorrhea flows like blood gushing from a turnip, sometimes taking mere minutes to develop from a soft, animalistic grunt into a full-throated blog entry, it takes hours for the IT Morlocks, their gnomely servants, and the oxen to complete their arduous conversion from well-formed garbage into an unmatched mishmash of human-readable mush. Hours of waiting and praying and sacrificing goats to the gods.
Most shocking of all, glargoyles are not mentioned once in the Bible. Not once.
The last of my potato juice is now gone—the jug empty. Gone forever. My big blonde huzzey-muffet hated the stuff. Apparently her hometown, the corn capital of Appalachia, is locked in a decades-long rivalry with the next town over, the premier potato producer east of Idaho. So that was that. Potatoes, like Communism, are the enemy. No question. So no more potato juice. I promised to quit cold turkey.
Hmm. I now contemplated trying cold turkey juice instead of potato. Hmm…
The word “equipage” comes from equus, Latin for “horse.” However, the word “equipment” comes from sċipian, Old English for “ship.” Who would’ve thunk it? Who came up with this language? And now I wanted my own horse to nosh on. (Or a ship.)
“Gorkle, gorkle!” I cried out, intent on adding a few of my own words to the English language. “Zorba digdorba! An eephus, from Ephesus, eeping, a Wild Eep! Wergilliger flarbles and a goat-dorned morpilicious vendicant mest, too! To, two, too, toe, tow, toa! Why, if I brented the lurlador, stumped the geesely ganders, and parndiddled the forsterbaster, would I have an easel, a weasel, or just a measle? What about my wamables? I’m all about my wamables! Wham! Wham, wham!”
I went on like that at length—and at width and height and breadth. It wasn’t as bizarre as that leaked video with Chiana, Sikozu, and Jool, but it was close.
On December 23, death and plague and pestilence will stalk the land. The rivers will run green with glargoyle blood. The Moon will be blotted out by a swarm of cockroaches and wingèd zebras. And Santa Claus will begin his southward march to exterminate us all.
And here is where I excuse myself for a moment to feed my FTP oxen, then return with more fingers but fewer noses.
Once again, I had places to be and a bird to baste. Becasue and I went upstairs to baste the bird. Oh, how we basted that bird!
Since IPv4 has four digits, why does IPv6 have more than six? And what of IPv5?
Will there ever be an IPv7 or an IPv8?
The world must know these things—before it all crashes down around us!
I am still unsure how those severed squirrel heads got in my backpack. But that is neither here nor there now. What is here is a severed goose neck: Equally perplexing. I could really use that twine I found under a mattress in 1989 right about now.
Santa Claus will soon be here. Satanmas will soon follow. And then… At these thoughts, I cranch. My jaw clenches, as does my anus. Santa’s toy-laden sleigh, pulled by a team of flying bipedal murder chickens, will soon be thumping across my roolf, while I hide under my couch and pray to Ka‘ū for the day to end. But it will never end: This year, I am most certain, December 26 will never arrive. Christmas Day will herald the end of the world. The end of all the world. The Sun will sink below the horizon, set upon and devoured by the bloody equephagous geese. The snow will fall and Satan Claus will loose his bipedal murder chickens from their yoke, to wreak havoc and clucking, squawking death upon the Earth. By January 1 (which will never actually come), the only life left in the two Universes will be that hoary, bearded old gnome. And he will be laughing. Laughing. Laughing.
I call it my “roolf” because it’s opposite my floor and “floor” spelled backwards is “roolf.” It will not be a merry Christmas this year. Or ever again.
Silkience is death.
[Feetnote: No actual murder chickens were harmed in the making of this entry. However, three zebras were run over on the way home, a turkey was sacrificed, and everyone died en route to the hospital.]