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Alyssa Milano v. Phillip Norbert Årp

Entrenched under January 28, 2007.

As I prepared for the trial this Thursday, I was as nervous as a Drano-soaked hen caught in a wet noodling contest with nary a wet noodle to be seen. All I ate for dinner the night before was an oil drum full of beans, seven hotdogs (the inflatable kind), and a tank of helium. My pores slithering lithe porcupines rampantly as I set foot in the courtroom, I slinked into my seat beside my lawyer (a new one—anyone who refuses to sue Aika Miura’s feet is never going to represent me ever again!) and pretended I was only two feet tall, trying to hide behind the table like a four-year-old.

By the time the judge entered the chamber, I had built myself a fort out of the files my lawyer had brought with him, much like a four-year-old would do when faced with the threat of a harassment trial over his foot fetish. I hid within my manila-colored fort—which I had dubbed Fort Incarpathianable, in honor of my Carpathian Yapping Hound, Yappie—and awaited the judge to start exhorting me to come out and face Alyssa Milano like a man.

“What the devil is Mr. Årp doing under all those file folders?” the judge boomed as he entered the courtroom.

“Phillip’s not home! Go away! Woo hoo-hoo hey!!” I shouted, my nerves tying themselves in knots and releasing more lithe porcupines to slither along my veins and out my pores. I felt my gut start to quiver. My small intestine did the fandango beneath my stomach.

“Mr. Vlabbitteehoothie, is your client not well?” I heard the judge begin to question my lawyer, but suddenly it seemed all so far away—much farther than the few miles it really was. The judge droned on, my lawyer responding with excussion followed by excussion relating to my misbehavioralisms, but I couldn’t hear him over the rumbling, grumbling noises coming from my lower colon.

“Oh, dear,” I suddenly intoned, groaning as I hunkered down inside Fort Incarpathianable. I prayed to the voluptuous insect goddess Strahazazhia Kalamazoo-Kintaki-Meeps that I was wrong about what was about to happen.

“Wh—what is wrong with him?” the judge asked my lawyer sharply. “Is he having some sort of medical goonflayvin? A paroxysm of oogle-boogling? What is that terrible bubbling, burbling noise—it sounds like a kerfrumpt mating with an unwilling schtumpfenbeast—coming from under those file folders?!”

“Oh, dear! Not again!!” I shouted, springing out from under the folders and landing on my hind legs atop the table. I held my gut tightly with my forelegs, as my belly quavered and quivered, rattling the whole room from rafters to floorboards. “Not now! Any time but now!!” I began singing the national anthem, loudly, and off-key. Poor Ms. Milano looked lost at what was going on around her.

“Mr. Årp, compose yourself this instant, or I’ll hold you in contempt of cou—” the judge began. He never had the chance to finish elucidating his threatmongery, for it was at that exact moment that it finally happened. The poor judge would never have the chance to elucidate anything ever again, either.

Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly: It happened, once again. First with a hiss, then a pop, followed at last by a squishy, wet rumbling, building to a deafening roar of phbthpbhtphb!!! echoing throughout the halls. Before I completely grasped what had occurred, I found myself being propelled through the air, hundreds of feet above the courthouse, screaming, “Ay, ay-ay, ay-ay-ayy! Ya-ha ya-haa ya-haaaa heeee!!!” as my buttocks flapped and flabbled horrendously, shooting such flames beneath me as to provide sufficient thrust to have forced me off the table, through the courthouse ceiling, and along a graceful ballistic curve ending who-knows-where.

It was another disastrous farting spree. Fort Incarpathianable was history—blasted to heck and back—as was Engelbert Vlabbitteehoothie, Esq., and Judge Gerhardt Groompkin. And, unless I missed my guess, I had just killed Alyssa Milano.