Formica and formication
Fornicated on October 6, 2024.
Termites from Hyperborea played the arp. Goiters full of scorpions emerged from neckless ungulates and plodded off of their own free will. The ungulates didn’t seem to notice nor, if they noticed, care. I noticed the scorpions, though—the goiter-wrapped scorpions. And my own singular delusional parasitosis continued unabated as I plucked another Morgellons worm from my arm. There were so many.
It was alas another case of parasitological overimaginative verisimilitude. Or maybe even Ekbom’s syndrome. Were cockroaches crawling into my pores again? Were they golden cockroaches? Or were lithe porcupines slithering out of them? One thing was sure: Even with all my rugs worn down (or torn up), I was still infested with Morgellons worms.
Then, on a belatedly unrelated note, I wondered… since “in-” and “ex-” are opposites, is the ant species Formica exsecta actually an anti-insect? The dual-use Formica rufa, used for both Formica countertops and roolf shingles, also came to mind in that moment. (I call it my “roolf” because it’s opposite my floor and “floor” spelled backwards is “roolf.”) It struck me: The ants were invading my brain, nibbling my synapses, and rewiring my axons so I would think of nothing but ants, ants, ants.
Whereupon, on an unrelatedly belated note, I wished my palatial abode had Formica countertops—made from real ants. But all I have are these peculiar slabs of polished granite whose motley patterns change daily and persecute me by forming obscene imagery which spell out threats to my life and limbs. Other people get to see the Virgin Mary on a taco shell; Pnårp gets this. I started scratching, just thinking about all those Morgellons worms. Formication had struck once again.
We had just finished fornicating when I saw it: Proturans from Protura marching in a strict line along the bedroom wainscoting and baseboarding. Where were they going on their six tiny legs? What were these little coneheads up to at this undogly hour? Had all the shrieking and hooting awakened them? Were they following the termites back to Hyperborea whence they came? (Or to France whence the Coneheads came?)
Of course my huzzey-muffet couldn’t see the column of coneheads. She claimed it was just another nightmare—like that time I awoke insisting that the same proturans (from Protura) had allied with the Klingons (from Uranus) to gaff us like carp in our sleep. That episode had led to a lot of shrieking and hooting, too, of a much less enjoyable kind. It also led to me throwing out all my fish hooks as a precaution.
But I would not believe it. These dastardly hexapods—insects or not!—were up to something nefarious, undogly, and likely ungodly. After many frantic attempts at explanation, explication, and disinsection of myself and the wainscoting, I tried to defenestrate myself. It didn’t work. Nothing ever works. Either I forgot to open the window or Becasue gaffed me like a carp and dragged me back to safety. No one can escape the termites. Or the proturans. Or the Schmarnocks flower mucus dripping down the walls.
Then that VHS tape full of ants came back to haunt me. Or at least the ants did. Or at least their ghosts did. Or at least something resembling the ghosts of dead ants did. I blamed it all on the rapidly approaching holiday of Halloween, simmered down, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
Then those termites from Hyperborea started eating that arp, because it was made of wood.
My huzzey-muffet’s new shoes from NOSE had arrived. Both of them were a size 12. Indeed, she had feet like a whale that wouldn’t quit (if whales had feet anymore). And her toenails were always the right color—which today was a fluorescent orange that put me in mind of radioactive pumpkins.
The newspaper reported that President Piggy-Man was claiming that infesting the nation with millions of malaria-bearing mosquitoes will solve all our problems. But I knew better: It was ants we needed more of, not bacteria-ridden mosquitoes. Then it struck me: My granite countertops were covered in bacteria. So, so many little bacteria.
After many frantic attempts at explanation, explication, and disinfection of myself and the countertops, I gave up and accepted my fate—to be covered in bacteria from head to toe for life. I then decided only one course of action was warranted: I jumped out a window.
[Feetnote: No ants were harmed as a result of the intense formication—or fornication—in the making of this blog entry.]