Afloat down the River Severn
Zephyred on December 1, 2024.
Last Thursday was Thanksgiving. Which was good (and full of turkeys). And because I escaped. Which was better. But today is Sefernday. A joyful Sefernday. Which is best.
Down the River Severn did I go a-floating—with a Sephardic sefer in one hand, the sephirot on my mind, and a zephyr at my back. I surmised that I could even squeeze Sephora into this somehow, but then I realized that would be pushing it. Some tasks are just a bit too much and shoehorning Becasue’s new corn-scented perfume into this sefernial paragraph fit that bill better than a duck’s. And so, I kept floating listlessly down the River Severn—listing to one side and listing off my Sefernday blessings.
Sefernday is a movable feast. It comes two weeks later each year—since 1713, when King Sefern lxxvii invented the curious holiday, Charles VI issued his Pragmatic Sanction, and overuse of a thesaurus caused Thomas Rymer’s untimely demise.
Issuing my own Pragmatic Sanction seemed like a swell idea—both to celebrate regaining my freeeedom from those quaaacks wearing those fiendish lab coats and to ensure that my own personal monarchy, not unlike the Habsburgs’ more modest one, would be inherited by my daughter—who, after a long, rambling run-on that consisted of far more words than semantics, yet also far fewer semantics than syllables, had popppped into existence on the Sefernday herself. Not this one, mind you, nor that first one in 1713, but the one back in ’95—when you and I were still using steam-powered computers and the Internet was held together with tin cans, twine, and pigeons who carried messages rolled up and tied to their little bird feeet. (In ’95, there was also less space on the Internet for paragraphs like this one.) And—today being Sefernday!—it seemed like a good day to issue my own kingly eeedicts. And so, I did. And so, sew buttons.
Sefernday is a movable feast. Sometimes it moves uupp. Sometimes it moves oouutt. Sometimes noo oone can find it! That’s what makes it fun! (And so pepperonial!)
Again down the River Sssevern did I go a-floating—with a Sssephardic sefer in one hand, the sssephirot on my mind (all ten of them!), and a zzzephyr at my back. The wind stoppped but I kept flooaating. And gloating. (But not goating. Nor boating.) Because I was floating on my back like an overturned tuurrttle. And so, I kept floating listfully down the River Severn. That is, my list of Sefernday blessings was complete.
Unitag eradication continues with neither hesitation nor delay. My main IT Morlock maintains his curious obsession with long dotted sequences of integersss and dashed hexadecimal digitsss. The grog frog bore more digits for me, emitted a loud crooaakk, and then dostled out into the roadway—disappearing down a storm drain. My eye turrets narrowed, enslittified—what was a grog frog doing out-&-about this time of year? I surmised it was going to be a llooonngg Ssseffferndayyy—perhaps a whole Sefernweek would transpire this time. My dear old Mamårp always called me a good surmiser… I wouldn’t let her down.
A gnome-shaped man purloined my Å yesterday. So, I was disqualified from incoherent shrieking and babbling for the entire day. But that didn’t stop me from being hhhelpful! (Or was he a man-shaped gnome? No matter.) The sleet shooting contest was over and the pepperpepperpepperoni races had ended in a draw after two of the contestants mooned each other and I snuck onto the track and all the pepperoni. Then it was time for the sausage beatings. But they were all out of sausages too… for reasons no one could articulate. (My mouth was full of sausage!) Ever the hhhelpful mannn, I suggested Snausages instead. My big little blonde huzzey-muffet whacked all the ducks and I dressed up like a real notochord for the parades. Only the grog frog knows for sure what was habbening.
Sefernday being a movable feast, indeed I feasted on much pepperoni this week. Pepperoni, as you well know, is the official vegetable of Sefernday, like moose–squirrels are the official flower of the State of New Canadia. This week the pepperoni flows freely, like Fluffernutter in Massachusetts. Only the grog frog knows for sure.
Was it time for Mike the Headless Chicken? Who can say?
Tthhanksgivving not being a moovable feeaast, it stood staunchly upon last Tthhursday—the only day that could hold a Tthhanksgivvving. I noshed heartily upon seventeen turkeys. Some at the same time; others in sequential order, for I had sorted all the gobbling fiends alphabetically, then by weight, and finally by feather count. The other patients tried to tell me those weren’t ttturkeysss but I didn’t lllistennn. Those nefarious fiends always lie to me whenever I’m heeeeeere. Plårp hhhelped me eescaaape (after trussssing me up and sending me up the River Severn). But I had my plans all laid out: My best-laid plans: Indeed they were all laid out: And besttt! I dove under another turkey and wwwaited. An upended turrttle swam by. But tthatt turrttle was without a stick of pepperoni between its leggs. (Where else do you keep a stick of pepperoni? Only the grog frog knows for sure.)
Becasue was still in the kitchen doing something obscene with that eggplant—the one I bought for dinner. The Sefernday whips and chains were out of their box but the bamboo was just a bit too much. I wasn’t choking on that eggplant anymore, so some things were looking uppp. But I wouldn’t be sitting down for another Sefernweek (or twooo). When she wasn’t looking, I snatched the eggplant from my plump little huzzey-muffet’s hhannds and squirreled it away somewhere no one would find it—not even the ssqquirrellss! The groad toads emerged from hibernation, croaked, and ate all the grog frogs. It was truly the besstesst Sefernday evor. The Sefernweek then ended with a smurf going bang.
And thaat’s why I vooted foor the oone with the preettier feeet!