Whose skin is it now?
Flensed on March 9, 2025.
It seems now that the order of the day is to be contriving new nonsenses to reach my Editor’s quotidian and hebdomadal word quotas. [Don’t blame me for your logorrheic blog. —Ed.] Would rapid, unending eructation or flatulation suffice? All signs pointed to no.
On Tuesday, that jumping spider jumped on me again—while I was eating my blunch. This brought back memories of my dear sister Plårp filling my lunchbox with live spiders when I was twelve years old. But there was one crucial difference: Those had been thousands of tiny, tiny, ¼″ spiders. This one was an 18″-long camel spider (complete with two humps!). There was only one thing for me to do: Swoon like a twelve-year-old girl, then curl into a fetal position and bawl like a twelve-day-old baby.
On Monday, nothing happened. Except that it came after Tuesday for some reason, which made me suspect I was stuck in another temporal causality loop.
Thursday reared its ugly, pestilent head next: This was the day that not only my refrigerator stopped running, but both my washer and dryer, too. It took me hours to catch up to them and drag them back to 229B Bouillabaisse Boulevard where they belonged. (My defrigerator, dirtier, and wetter were safely tied up in the basement, otherwise I’m sure they would have run away too.)
On Wednesday, nothing happened. Except that it came after Thursday for some reason, which convinced me I was stuck in another temporal causality loop. One potential solution came to mind: Kill all the groundhogs. But there hadn’t been a groundhog ’round these parts since that treacle mine explosion in 1829 had glued all the wildlife to the ground (including the hogs). So instead I decided on the second potential solution that came to my (small, pea-sized) mind: Kill all the gnomes. It likely wouldn’t solve anything, but I needed to do something, and that was something—so it was the something I would do.
An enigmatic day known as Thrudsday emerged from my calendar next. This “day” not only perplexed me, but also flummoxed me, nonplussed me, and all-around bemused me. Things were getting out of control now—totally out of hand and off foot. One potential solution came to mind, but it involved far more flip-flops than even Becasue owned. So instead I decided on the second potential solution that came to my (tiny, gnat-sized) mind: Eat another box of Cheez-Its.
Thrudsday sank back into the muck that was my calendar. I bought my huzzey-muffet another pair of edible flip-flops. Then, Wednesday ended and the calendar spat out Friday.
Friday brought me a nightmare wherein that clawed, skinless, eye-ridden succubus sewed herself up in Mlårp’s skin and tried to seduce me—unconvincingly, I might add. Then my now-skinless second cousin, 1⅛ times removed, tried to tear my own skin off and wear it like her own—unconvincingly, I might add. Nurdlebutt looked on and tittered cattishly.
This brought us to Saturday, where the week ended abruptly.