My spaghetti trees had all flowered
Disassembled on February 19, 2023.
“I am not less perfect than Lore…
“I am not less perfect than Lore.”
“‘I am not less perfect than Lore’!”
“Enough! Both of you! Sit down!”
The argument between Zippy, Shnarkey, and Wrrhnrrhthlplck’ck continued, with ever-increasing intensity (not to mention increasingly exotic quotation marks). It had been going on for hours, and only ended when I threatened to trepan myself. That shut them up for a bit. But I knew it would start up again the moment I let my guard (or my hair) down.
Great Noöclasm of 2186 or not, this newfangled positronic brain of mine was sure getting on my nerves.
Fark.com celebrated 24 years last week. My docile & perfunctory page celebrates 24 years next month. There’s a connection here and it’s not just the squirrels. Perhaps it’s that odd combination of phrenology, phlebotomy, and pfhornography that make the modern Internet go. Or perhaps it’s just the stupid acres of Studebakers out back.
Greta Thunberg or not, this newfangled pair of sustainable dormfuddies was sure getting on my nerves. The silithicine creatures were stirring in their lair; the warm weather had awoken them from their hibernal slumber prematurely. And me without my kookely-wanger or even a horse grunt to my name!
“If need be! If needle be!”
“You snaggle-toothed, butt-flanged dog-pusher!”
“Last ping? Last pong! Last ding?? Last dong!!”
“You snabble-toothed, bat-hinged butt-sawyer!”
Snorting in disgust, I went upstairs to feed my tulpas and egregores. They were angry today, these thought-forms made flesh were. The fish heads and moldy corncobs weren’t satisfying them anymore. Oh, they chomped and crunched and crunched and swallowed and belched. But I would have to appease them later with a caprine sacrifice or two. Keeping them around, especially the one shaped like Becasue’s butt (if it were made out of melting butter and a-writhe in tentacles), was keeping Zippy, Shnarkey, and Wrrhnrrhthlplck’ck in line. I didn’t even have to wave a screwdriver at my scalp in the mirror anymore. They kept silent. And I kept feeding more fish heads and moldy corncobs to my tulpas and egregores.
But then the voices started up again.
“You inept, naïve, Piltdown statesman! You maladjusted, purblind throttlebottom hoax of a statesman!”
“They’re words… but not as we know them!”
“Spwahh!!”
Wednesday segued into Wednesnight. Darkness fell, broke its hip, and couldn’t get up. I slept, I dreamed: A horrid nightmare in which I discovered I was all out of cream cheese after the bagel was in the toaster. I awoke screaming. Screaming.
Roy G. Biv, the most colorful man in the world, paid me a visit Thursday morning. He was a man of many talents, contrasts, and contradictions: A man so possessive he refused to give up even his trash. Instead he kept it locked safely up in his basement so none would steal it. I thought about my garbage-packed cream cartons and fidgeted slightly. He was a man so mistrustful he would ask for proof when his mother said, “I love you.” And he was a man known for drinking a bottle of hard Worcestershire sauce each evening after work.
He paid me that visit on Thursday to recite this ode at me:
Gaggles of geese! Gaggles of geese!
Gagged by a gaggle of geese?
Gagging on a gaggle of geese?
Gaggle upon gaggle… of geese!
Gargling a gaggle of geese?
Haggling o’er a gaggle of geese?
Bagging a gaggle of geese?
A garrulous gaggle of geese?
Or a Glagolitic gaggle of geese?
No—a gregarious gaggle of geese!
A jagged gaggle of geese?
A rag-tag gaggle of geese?
A waggling gaggle of geese?
A zig-zagging gaggle of geese!
A gaggle of meese?
No, a gaggle of geese!
A scraggle of screese?
No—a gaggle, a gaggle, a gaggle… of bleese!
I thanked him for subjecting me to his new “poem” and then considered trepanning myself again, this time through the eardrums. “Blob—person”: The miracle of birth summed up in one poetic phrase. Suddenly, noisily, another bitcoin scam broke out in my living room right then; it spread to the rest of my house within seconds. I excused myself, shut the door, and went to deal with that problem. Oh, well.
While pootling my poodles, I realized I needed a new batch of eggs.
While dootling my doodles, I discovered I needed a new loaf of bread.
While nootling my noodles, I learned my spaghetti trees had all flowered.
While tootling my toodles, I found all my raccoon milk had soured.
“Spwahh!!”
“Spwahh!!”