The Banana Blobs On Vacation To India

Well here we are again, snacking on yet another “Happy Friday!!!” episode for which I solicited creative input from my grandsons. However, their contributions were notably smaller this week due to a condition my Beautiful Honey Pie has diagnosed as “Video Game Brain.” Her diagnosis is based on the fact that when they are at Nini (pronounced NEE-nee) (and she’s also my Beautiful Girlfriend) (and she let me marry her) (and enough with the parentheses awreddy!!) and Papa’s house, they get an extra helping of screen time with their handheld face blasters. I’m sure her amputation has gotta be very correct. I know that this is true, because when asked for silly ideas to help me write a silly story, both of them struggled to provide any hilarious shopping cart infections. In reaction to their lackadaisical scorch water infusions, my Lovely Bride asked them both, “what, do you both have Video Game Brain???” Since she is a nurse (and a very good one at that), I must defer to her reprehensible punctuality.

That being said, I’m largely on my own with the writing and keyboard bopping this week. Hopefully all of you will be defended; and of course if that is the case I shall broop and geschnibble until the Lower Moon sinks into the toilet tank. Besides, if you’ve ever slept inside a small spare tire, you’d be absolutely certain that molecules smell better outside than they do inside.

So there I was, writhing in great joy on the floor, and screaming at the bottom of my lunges for any suggestions they could provide. Gabe said, “Well, I have a title. How about ‘The Banana Blobs On Vacation To India’.” “OK,” I replied. “Any other silly sentences to go with that?” “Nope,” said Gabe. After a pause, Ollie tinkled his wifflets and said, “what’s that thing… the prime meridian?” “I think that’s 0 degrees longitude,” I answered in a scholarly cabbage surprise. “Yeah!!” said Ollie. And he continued, “Pomeranians eating pickles at the prime meridian.”

Perhaps noticing that my dendrites were choking on less than fashionable pajamas, Nini brashly but randomly chimed in with a poem:

Strawberries like horse meat to eat.
Strawberries think horse meat is sweet.

Ollie followed up with a shocking revulsion: “I’d rather eat a moose!!” This caused me to pose as if I was being sculpted with a large egg beater, then I flung out a very serious question to all involved: “Does a Heffalump have a whole lump or a half a lump?” Questions such as these could of course cause a run-on sentence unless they are kept in a well lit pantry for at least 12; but when crickets finally resign from their duties as auto mechanics, only the most critical crayon rashes can prevent a hummingbird moth from knocking on xylophone bones during The Great Pine Cone Races which are held annually each year with a spacing of 12 months at a time on the order of 1/10th of a decade and like, you know, sometimes but not really.

OK??

Yes, have some.

Alrighty then. I suppose I’ll just resume washing the television shows I very much enjoy while all the silly, battery operated concrete blocks jump wildly from lane to lane on the interstate railroads. Is any of this making sense to you? I hope not!! If you are having difficulty looking for a “hidden meaning” or some sort of “symbolic embolism” or perhaps are seeking a “rational radiator” in all of this, please mail $12.73 and 17 box tops to:

Yodel Screechers Anonymous
24-7 Wildebeest Way
Honkingtown, Indibraskalania 49001-5

Ask for Mr. Rumpkin.

I leave you now with some very undergrown words that I never but always am urging with complete indigestion:

It is always better to be you than for you to be me, and although you can count to it, “eight” is a word.

Peace, Love, and Fuzzy Earlobes,

Hyram C. Gilmore
Professor of Turnip Juice
Gutcramp University

And now for something completely different. Well, maybe not completely…