A disastrous pie-eating contest
Drawn and quartered on July 16, 2006.
Alyssa Milano’s Feet reached Bermuda this week, sailing into the triangular harbor with a feminine grace not seen since the real Alyssa Milano’s bare feet graced the pages of TV Guide. The harbor was full of green-gray effluent and dead, disemboweled fish; at first I feared I had gone on another farting spree in the night and ruined the whole island nation. But fortunately, that wasn’t true: The effluent was from the next ship over, the USS John Wilkes Booth (Americans sure are good at producing a lot of effluent), and the floating gutted fish were the result of a disastrous pie-eating contest the Bermudans had held four days earlier.
On my way ashore, I slipped and broke my eyeball. I tried to go to the local hospital, but it was full of casualties from the pie-eating contest, so I ended up having to sew up my eyeball myself. I think I put it back in backwards. Thinking about pies reminded me of the flying, floating pi I once knew long, long ago… and the screaming stars (oh… how they screamed), and a stiflingly hot little prison cell in Afghanistan in which I had languished several weeks while being tortured by a camel with a pincushion and an accordion.
“Where are you now, O screaming stars?” I whispered into the night, staring up at the silent, silent stars dotting the night sky like grains of sugar spilt across a Starbuck’s counter top and illuminated by a flashlight. “I hated you, feared you, but, oh, you were so much better than incipient lawn gnomes pouring out of the sky on gilt parachutes. Oh, to have you instead of gnomes, gnomes, gnomes.”
“And the pi!” I called into the night, baying like a coyote drunk on vodka and eigenberry-flavored V8. “The flying, floating pi! Alas, will you ever recite your digits to me again? Alas, will I ever have the sublime pleasure of setting my eyes upon your transcendent circleness again? Flying pi, how I miss you so!”
I was lost in memories of bygone days when a scrawny little boy came up to me and slapped me on my nose, hard. I went squoing!! and whapped him with a hose, harder. He giggled and snapped at me with his clothes, so I flapped at him and posed… so he crapped on my toes and ran away, still giggling. I chased after him, trying to get his autograph (or perhaps sell him a dishpan autographed by Rory Calhoun, and some old soda-jerk furniture), but he had disappeared quicker than Bob Dole at a Viagra convention. Wait, that analogy doesn’t make any sense… does it?
Great Custer’s Ghost! The Alyssa Milano’s Feet sets sail tonight whether or not I’m on her! Flee you next week, dear readers!