Meat-based vegetables
Meted out on February 9, 2025.
I want to start seeing meat-based vegetables. A fistful of bacon can be fashioned into something resembling a tomato fairly easily. Paint some spare ribs green and call them celery. That eggplant? Actually, a beef liver.
Narming a Narn. Narming all of Narnia. Or nobbling a flobble? What would be on today’s most succulent menu? My huzzey-muffet’s delectable little—
I tried to give all of Slovakia an X-ray but broke my buttock-bone while reading the latest Mary Shelley novella. What was more likely to get your face scratched off? Caning a canine or feeling up a feline? That canine-caning accident on Wednesday surely was outdone by that time that Nurdlebutt—
But then, magnetized buttocks of juicy delight farnstopped the glorpf-snake with a mighty squeeze. Quickly elaborate the elarporants. Doozle floozles. But don’t clatter your floozies—again. It’s not really feet that Pnårp likes, it’s feet.
“A patient cured is a customer lost.” But that’s not why I lost that gurning competition and Ol’ Fishface won it. Moreover, I couldn’t help but wonder if Mary Shelley wore sandals while writing all those novels. And how so bore log another more slenderly murp.
He said this in the finest Scottish drogue. A pot of message he delivered—not a mess of pottage, not by far. Then there were a multitude of manicured feet and pedicured hands. It wasn’t the only time things went backwards around here. Yet still, the snow fell, ice and rain and sleet and even frozen hotdogs—rained from the sky. As surely as a snow flea flees from snow, my huzzey-muffet blorped that glorpf-snake. Because it was made out of corn. Corn gone rightly wrong.
“Does not” and “doe snot” are two entirely different things, I learned on Monday.
Phippil Ronbert Prå lives. But my seventh-floor bathroom doesn’t have a floor anymore. Nor do the six rooms below it. And twenty cubic yards of hard, delicious concrete now rest sullenly in my basement mancave. The fish escaped. They were replaced with alligators after the sewer line broke open. So that’s okay now. Phippil Ronbert Prå escaped and is gallivanting around town pretending to be me. But no one knows how to wear a stick of pepperoni about his neck like I do. No one.
Luckily, I have at least forty-seven other toilets I can utilize.
My left nostril is used for inhaling. And my right nostril is used for exhaling. And my “third nostril” is used for producing excess phlegm, breathing underwater, whiffreading, and weird sexual practices. Becasue only has two nostrils, but that doesn’t stop her!
“I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats; if it be man’s work, I’ll do ’t.”
Speaking in tongues commenced. But they weren’t my tongues. Mooning about I was, gooning about I also was: But then therefore why heretofore I hence dost my tiddlies and sprayed a splayed neigh, for—under vooth and varmooth—it was not nearly yet Sefernday, but surely, verily, verifiably, it shall should have been. End-of-line.