Too-quiet, two-tone, too-soon
Bicolored on January 26, 2025.
My paternostical little town’s gurning competition is a mere ha’week away. Ha! I’ll best them all!
Chlöë’s blonde feet popped into my head right then. She was still wearing that extra diaeresis I gave her, too. Then she went prancing off because not even my daydreams want to stay inside this noggin too long.
My Trabant is still making those dying-fish noises every time I try to turn over the motor. I think the end is nigh for my faithful old Trabi, yet I still hold out hope. When I was but a Pnårpling, I had a goldfish that I thought died—but he came back to us after Plårp gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. So anything is possible. (Except me losing that gurning competition!)
My smolious little town’s gurning competition is a mere ha’week away. Ha! I’ll best them all!
I tried writing a bunch of proclamations and executive orders myself on Monday, but no one listens to me. Not even the geese anymore. My neighbors think I’m just some nut squatting in that abandoned house at 229B Bouillabaisse Boulevard. But I’m not just some nut—I’m the nut that stands on the corner of Bouillabaisse Boulevard and Frummwich Drive with a cardboard sign telling everyone the end is nigh!
The new 119th Congress had misplaced Louisiana again, but those air strikes they accidentally authorized in Utah had distracted the nation, so no one noticed. (No one except me.) So now we were down to 48, but I still thought there were too many states. Perhaps our lord-commander-in-chief would make Colorado slide into the Pacific Ocean. Or perhaps Missouri would be swept away into the sky on the backs of ten-thousand-thousand tornados. Anything is possible. (Except me losing that gurning competition!)
Jada’s two-tone feet popped into my head right then. She wasn’t even wearing a diaeresis. At least not yet. But I had plenty to spare! Then she too went bounding off because not even my daydreams want to stay inside this noggin too long.
Becasue slapped me for perseverating over Chlöë and Jädä again, so I retreated to my sub-basement mancave to do the needful. But there were a lot of fish down there, which distracted me—but only a little. I thought about my old goldfish again. I thought about that neighbor down the street we call Ol’ Fishface. (He replaced Ol’ Bummie when the latter got kicked in the head by a halibut and died.) Then, it struck me like a dead fish across the face: Why were there so many fish down here?
Was this where all the California smelt ended up when they went into hiding? Was my very own basement the last stop on the Underground Smelt Railroad? But then I recalled, smelt are tiny—yet all these fish lounging about were big enough to saddle up and ride like a horse! Smelt didn’t smell either… and these fish smelt awful!
I kept up my surmising. (Mamårp always said I was a good surmiser.) Did the sewer spring a leak again? But then I recalled, that’s how the alligators got in down here back in ’22. That’s not how fish get in. Did the gas line spring a leak? Wait, no—that’s how the ocelots get in. And so, I resolved to get to the bottom of the mystery. But then I promptly forgot about it when a cod half the size of half a whale nearly bit half my head off.
Not once in the history of mankind have the words “mortal combat with a fish” been uttered or scribbled out on paper, but now was apparently the time for them.
…!!
In the end, I won.
“Enough of this,” I muttered darkly and woke up from my piscatorial nightmare.
My inflibdibulous little town’s gurning competition is a mere ha’week away. Ha! I’ll best them all!
An awful lot of people were getting awful stabby this week, but I was busy trying to stab all the gnomes accreting in my wainscoting, so I didn’t get to join in the fun. (Besides stabbing 818,008 gnomes, that is.) I left the mopping-up operation to Nurdlebutt. She liked eating gnomes. Emitting a triumphal sound not unlike a celebrating fish, I bounded up my stairs and perched myself in my seventh-story water closet to obsess over Chlöë and Jädä again. It was quiet in here. Too quiet. I began making motorboat noises.
Too-quiet restrooms. Two-tone feet. Too-soon gurning competitions. These were indeed what this week was about.