Toppings on the bottom?
Bottomed out on December 18, 2022.
There were toppings on the bottom of my pizza. This confused and angered me slightly. I carefully lifted up the corner of the pizza a second time, and yep—there, between the crust and the grease-laden box, was the pepperoni. I set it back down and contemplated my predicament. How to eat this hopelessly confused pizza without transferring its hopeless confusion to my own addled pate?
There was also butter on the outside of my dinner roll. This confused and angered me even more. And then I found a hotdog bun on the inside of my hotdog… and a hamburger bun on the inside of the hamburger patty. This was the last straw.
In a desperate effort to fix these surreally disorganized food items, I turned everything over and inside-out—starting with my shirt, pants, and socks. My underwear was a fully reversible design, so there was nothing to be done there. I looked back at my twisted victuals. My pizza remained upside-down and everything else remained inside-out. I couldn’t explain it, apparently I couldn’t fix it, and I certainly couldn’t stand it much longer, so I just ate everything backwards.
That did the trick.
Last week’s unending night terrors wherein I would discover that reality is only 50% real (and 50% artificial) were replaced this week with even worse dreams wherein I would discover that reality is in fact 100% real. Upon reawakening into the real world however, I was soon comforted in the knowledge that this world was, in all actuality, not real at all.
I settled back into my bed cushions while the gnomes, gnutes, and gnizzles surrounded me in shimmering rainbows and haze, and serenaded me back to sleep with the sweet sounds of Murderdeathcock, my favorite genocide-metal band.
I picked up another DRD and ate it whole.
A-wheepling and a-whoppling the gnomes did swiftly go, all budgery-doo and a-floogle for many a toe. My kerfrumpts were a-brilling and a-queeging, with nary a dorstly muffle-buff in sight, and but for the fornax agog and aghast they did flow.
Thomas Midgley, Smedley Butler, or Smidgley Mudgley? Woodgie coodgie indeed. A boogie boogie doople. Fewer than twenty-five horses to go, I realized, but then I needed some more. Or a really, really big fish made out of unicycles.
Those were Becasue’s toes, if you must know.
It was as easy as eatin’ pancakes—but I didn’t want to come off looking like a can of smashed assholes. But more importantly, sometimes I wondered about the people who poop in urinals. I really do. But then I wonder even more about the people who pee in the backs of toilets.
My nose hairs are growing at a feverish pace this week. I keep tripping over them. The more I cut them, the faster they grow. On Tuesday I tried out a new nose hairdo, and on Wednesday even made a nose hairshirt, but it was all in vain. A subsequent day brought a failed attempt at making a nose hair-suit for my hirsute nose, but that was to be next week’s problem, not this week’s. (I told you I was now a time traveler, right?)
Perhaps a cilice made out of my own cilia would be a better idea.
Did you know that the false toadflax has an orange drupe?
I thought only true toads came in orange.
I thought only fake toads came with nuts, not drupes.
I thought I was living in a 0% real “real world” again.
And so, without further ado, without further squiffling and babbling, dawdling or mussy-guffeting, I picked up my knitting needles and started making a nose squirrel-suit. Being a six-foot-tall man–squirrel, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I was fresh out of any other good ideas. Mediocre ones, too. Bad ideas I was still full of: Fashioning a bicycle out of two hoop snakes and a bunch of moose femurs, making cubist cigars, or starting an adult entertainment site featuring nothing but hardcore prawnography.
Amidst these ruminations I received a piece of sad news in the mail: Another movie studio rejected my idea for a film that would surely be a new holiday classic, if it had been made: Christmas with the Kaczynskis.
The farmer filled his galvanized bucket with pasteurized milk, squeezed from his mesmerized cows, proclaimed this bowdlerized blog. Add in some osterized vegetables and marplized gold, and that farmer would have a truly bottomless pizza.
Stick that in your craw and smoke it.