Inter the Tartletts imminently,
Bananas and bingo-playing buttle-bunked bumpkins from Baltimore bravely bare their bathing bonnets,
Jeffrey, Royal Poop of Custard Land, steps out for a snack,
Triskets languish in the hoary arms of ancient apes,
And the brittle strains of Toscanini rise from scud camps of briny banditos,

As the Philosopher King muses, surrounded by the Chinese characters for WhizBang! and Flemmelhortz, the table of North Pole elements (snacks, kazoos, mismatched socks, etc.), various algebraic anomalies involving the art-life continuum, and several vats of red paint. Trickles of Sartre and Derrida skirt cautiously past his right big toe, intimidated by the veracity of voracious verbal verisocity verily inveined in the mighty digit- source of his unconscionably consistent high scores in both Royalty and Scrabble, but not Set.

To a distant chorus of fresh apricots on Shenai he spoke: "Griddlesmack me Timbers!"*

Whereupon WhizBang! and Flemmelhortz scampered off to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. However, the resulting flapjacks were themselves so crapulous as to immediately consume both their makers, two tins of shoe polish (black), P.K.'s entire supply of hot pink toothpaste, several books on flower arranging, a box of spaceship band-aids, 50 red poker chips, 3 stray Triskets, and a small amount of Vaseline. Unfortunately this instigated a vicious case of diarrhea, believed to have made a significant contribution to their early demise from dehydration.

However, the resulting corpses were found to make excellent frisbees. And rightly so, as P.K. had recently undertaken an epically absurd quest, in which they would come in quite handily, the search for his bemused muse, the Ham of Jollility.

This elusive luminary is commonly held to linger above the North Pole at a height of approximately 20,000 ft. Legend has it that he rarely descends to bestow his inspiratorial blessings because of the risk inherent in his meaty appearance. P.K., however, being vegitatious in orientation, felt confident in his ability to conspire confidence within the Jolly Ham and glimpse his portly pink visage, said to induce the very fits of tap dancing and spatula spinning he had so been yearning for.

But first he must rise to the occasion, literally. Quickly deducing his latent high jump inability, P.K. inquired as to other strategic stratagems for straddling the stratosphere.

One idea was to catch a lift with a super special spiffy visitor from outer space (the kind of N.P. citizenry alluded to in several official documents), but no one could be found who was willing to substantiate their existence. Consequently they decided to go bowling in Iowa instead, and did rather well - scoring an average of 323.64, and edging out the local champions from Emma's Bar down the street. Dawn Himple watched from Lane 3, but she only bowled a 47.

Meanwhile, the great P.K. was in flagging spirits. Oh woe to the Head of State of the North Pole unable to Poop on a Jolly Ham! **

Although he had been told not to play with his food, in despair P.K. took to idly flipping about the flapjack corpses. And as he did, something warmed within him, and under principles similar to those of a hot air balloon, he began to rise.

He had thought them to be rather unsavory characters earlier, however, a new appreciation of leftovers now filled his toasty tummy as he flipped the mighty disks hamward and continued his heady ascent. Above him loomed an effervescent cloud of soft pink and P.K. quickly composed a "Song With Which to Conspire Confidence" for the Great Ham of Jollility...

* It may be useful here to examine several linguistic descendants of the Northern persuasion of this phrase:

Griddlesmack me Timbers
Widdleslap me Flipper
Wifflestop the Fipple
Gipplefop the Stiffle
Steepleflop the Wipple
Bleebleglop that Hippo
Sleezleslop hit Pickle
Seesawgoose heft Sickle
Theresagus onthe Pillow

** A colloquialism for visitations of an a-Musing nature.

***Sung to the tune of "I'm Just a Little Black Rain Cloud" from Winnie the Pooh.

****In keeping with the creative ideals of the North Pole, no authenticated version of the text exists. That which is printed here should therefore be taken as a mere suggestion or model, upon which each reader, if s/he/it chooses, may construct their own version.

At which point something so incredulously incredulous, miraculously miraculous, and stupendifically stupendous happened, as to render the Philosopher King re-inspirated. While he continued to gaze vegitariaciously at the massive pink globule, a fleeting glint of mighty tin was bestowed unto our dear Head of State!

Although taken by some (heathens!) to be a mere satellite, surely this was the sacred wink of the Great Ham of Jollility. Whereupon P.K.'s now legendarily prodigious tap dancing and spatula spinning abilities arose from their long hibernation and wandered about groggily in search of a snack.

And the following song, composed upon his descent, still figures prominently in silliness and absurdity throughout the North Pole****:

Pooped on the lid of a Jolly Ham,
Comin' down the custard lamb.
We've got mustard on a curly hain,
Sheep halls swinging on a poop ball chain!

(Translation:
I have seen the face of my sacred muse,
Look down from a great pink smog.
He winked and now I can
Tap dance and spin spatulas like a real pro!)

And so...