A laughing stock
Boiled on December 22, 2024.
For dinner on Monday, I boiled my funny bone and made a laughing stock. Needless to say, I still cannot wrap my brain around the fact that bananas are just plantains in disguise. Why do they hide like that? What are they afraid of if we learn the truth?
Ernest Entwistle Cheesman is assuredly the poster child for debunking nominative determinism. He loved his bananas yet not once made slide whistles out of cheese. I tried to make one once but ended up eating the curious little thing before I played a single note on it. Honestly, he was no cheese man. I am.
I shrugged and put these irruminations out of my mind. Irregardless of these clandestine fruit and caseous musical instruments, of one thing I was most sure: Atmospheric CO2 levels surpassing 420 ppm at the same time my state legalized cannabis was no coincidence. The CO2 was getting pretty thick in here, too.
Nurdlebutt tried to write rhymes like Thomas Rymer had written but all she could come up with was asyllabic grunting and meowing. (She is, after all, a cat.) Then I tried to write rhymes like Rymer wrote. I made a laughing stock out of myself again. As an aside—when a pig loses its voice, does it become disgruntled? Either way, it’s poetic justice for all of us.
Which days are the strongest? Saturday and Sunday. The rest are weak days. But then it was Tuesday.
I've spent twenty-five years writing my autobiography. Weekly, words spring into existence in my mind—some of them even real words!—and I scribble them down on paper or monitor before they fly off into space. On Wednesday, I accidentally glued myself to my autobiography. Becasue was incredulous—but that was my story and I was sticking to it! Besides, the difference between a literalist and a kleptomaniac is a comma: A literalist takes everything literally. A kleptomaniac takes everything, literally.
I never wipe my butt with my right hand—toilet paper works better.
Old Years Eve is just around the corner! And Tacky Blow-Up Santa Claus Lawn Ornament Day is this week! An execrable fifth Sunday comes soon, too! But Thursday was when we learned the hard way that Becasue’s new “Sephora” perfume was counterfeit—my huzzey-muffet was misled to believe it was authentic beaver-butt musk when it was really ocelot pheromones. Then she reminded me the potatoes have eyes, the corn has ears, and the beanstalk.
That made me more paranoid than a long-tailed cat at a wheelchair convention. Nothing would soothe my nerves until every can of beans was set afire and disposed of. Becasue beckoned me upstairs but I told her, “I don’t trust stairs. They’re always up to something!”
“What has five toes and isn’t my foot? Someone else’s foot.”
Things becoming simply too corny to bear, I retorted: “Love you from my head to-mah-toes!” I then forgot about my mistrust of those stairs. For once, corn did not go wrong that night!