Ensconced and enholed
Procrastinated on November 3, 2024.
With the trick-or-treaters and smell-my-feeters becoming a distant memory, I returned to my normal life: Procrastinating the hell out of writing my next insufferable, ineffable blog entry.
Procrastinating is among my finest skills. And so, I puttered around the house. I putted around the golf course. I rearranged my furniture and reorganized all the books on my shelves. I checked the accuracy of my ceiling clocks and calendars. I taught myself French and Xhosa. I decided to take up living room golfing so I could putter and put at the same time.
I adopted every excuse I could find, went digging for more, and when I ran out of those, I made up some new ones never before heard. I hemmed. I hawed. I hemmed and hawed. I dawdled and dillydallied. I even shillyshallied! I told myself I forgot where my computer was. I convinced myself I forgot how to use a computer keyboard and mouse. I even convinced Becasue I forgot how to use my computering chair. Then, when afforded the first opportunity, I dove in a hole in the ground, ensconced myself under all my sofa cushions, and buried my head in the sand in as ostrich-like a manner I could muster.
Becasue gave me something good to eat. So I came out of the hole.
Then I remembered why I had been in the hole, so—after much clicking and popping—I climbed back down into it and refused to come out again. It was a nice hole in the ground and it was where I belonged. I had even dug it myself, when I had been looking for all those excuses. It was truly where I belonged.
After more coaxing, my huzzey-muffet threw her sandals at me, which only elicited confused shrieking about red-hot angry genocide wasps, which in turn only further confused the matter, which—upon the realization it was I doing the shrieking—only became more surreal and ineffable as the day wore on. Becasue threw another pair of shoes at me. I shrieked and clicked some more.
Only upon realizing that my plump little huzzey-muffet owned enough sandals to bury me alive in my hole, did I realize I would lose this battle one way or another. And so, I slunk out, skunk-like, and resigned myself to twickling out another pile of purposeless, purple prose.
Then I fell in another hole in the ground—a trap laid by nefarious squirrels, I surmised. (I’m such a good surmiser.) But Becasue hauled me up out of that one too and told me to get busy blogging or get busy dying. I took that as my cue to scurry off, squirrel-like, and get to work pinching out this high, haughty heap of word salad. Would it make sense? No. Would anyone want to read it? Hecklegroober no. But that wouldn’t stop me. It never had before. Not even that enormous, randy Tandy had stopped me back in ’06.
This year, I’m voting for the prettier feet.