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The Great Fluffernutter Deluge of ’58

Whored out on December 10, 2006.

Another day, another bit of salacious anti-computationalism and Levantine foot-fetishism, as that old saying goes. (That’s the one we use ever since Malthusian Fluffernutter fell out of style, after the Great Fluffernutter Deluge that wiped out the lower south end of my city back in ’58.) This particular day was no ordinary bit of salacious anti-computationalism, however: It was the day that a giant and rather salacious computer came roaring down Bouillabaisse Boulevard and ate my house, kitchen sink and all!

It all happened so fast, I barely saw it coming—and once it was over, I still wasn’t sure what had happened, except for the singing spiders that announced afterward, in a singsong falsetto: “Ha, ha, hah, Phillip, ha, ha, hah! Your house was eaten by a computah!” I quickly dispatched the sneering spiders with a flamethrower fashioned out of a fork, a spoon, an old tampon, and a butane lighter, then I tried to rebuild my house from the four shingles, eight nails, and single piece of tarpaper that remained.

Jennifer Love Hewitt sitting barefoot on her bed.

I succeeded—but the house was extremely small, and I couldn’t fit anything in it other than a single copy of the TV Guide: The one with Alyssa Milano barefoot on the cover along with two other barefoot cuties. This angered me, as did the raucous goat orgy taking place on Ornithopter Street, so I stomped around like Rumpelstiltskin, until I split in half just like Rumpelstiltskin, and melted into the earth (like a tub of butter left out in the sun), whereupon I became trapped in an underground cavern not unlike that which a Westphalian Schmongeling Gnome would call home, sweet home.

That angered me even more, so, after looking around frantically for Haldûrburðgar and his gnomely knaves, I reinstantiated myself aboveground and, resigning myself to the knowledge that my house would forever dwell in the belly of a rampant, randy Tandy, I built myself a new house out of old tires and cardboard boxes that I had found discarded along the side of Terwilliger Street and Goldfarb Avenue. That is, I tried to build myself a new three-storey, five-bedroom house as I had had before (the extra bedrooms are for the gorillas!), but I gave up after assembling five sheets of cardboard into what looked very much like a fort a twelve-year-old would build.

Thus satisfied, I bedded down for the night within my cardboard fortress, which I dubbed Fort Flabberwocky, and for which I made a flag out of an old photo depicting Jennifer Love Hewitt sitting barefoot on her bed, one foot tucked beneath her lovely legs, and the other saliciously displaying itself for all to see.

My bed, of course, was nothing like hers: It was composed of three tires covered in a sixth sheet of cardboard stained with Lord-knows-what, and it employed a few thin sheets of old newspapers—some clearly used previously as ad-hoc toilet papery—for blankets. Ah, the good old days, just like when I lived behind the Spend-O-Mart on Crunkner Boulevard back in ’01, when people would call me “Crazy Phil” and try to trick me into thinking ceramic garden gnomes had come to life and stolen my epithelial cell walls.