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The Magic Oreo Machine™

Played footsie with on May 29, 2005.

I once again could not get Alyssa Milano out of my mind—nor the Spice Girls and their pretty feet. I thought about a Trooble of the Englebee variety, or two, wondering where the police had gone while my house burned to the ground and smeared semper sic tyrannis all over itself like it had almost a year ago. Augusto Pinochet would know, and so would the interdimensional intercapitulation squad.

The captain of the Magic Oreo Machine™ spelled it out clearly: They were still out there lying about the vesicles. I was furious. Where was my house, damn it!? Having the magnetic clamps of wisdom and the AK-47 on my roof once more, I strode down the street like a plastic mannequin and sang out, “La-di-da! La-di-da-di-daa!” until I was arrested for disturbing the moonshiners. I spent the rest of the week hanging wallpaper in a jail cell.

No more eigenfactors for me. And no more thinking about Alyssa Milano, the Spice Girls, or their sexy, sexy feet.