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Alyssa Milano lives!

Jury-rigged on February 4, 2007.

I finally made landfall this Tuesday: My furiously flapping buttocks having run out of thrust at last and all the fuel stored in my lower colon having become depleted, I finally began my howling descent back to the hard, hard earth below. With a sickening—and slightly amusing—thud, I landed head-first on a stretch of land that looked as if it had been used for a Patagonian cow-schtupping contest not too long before. Landing in a cow pie as deep as the height of six men and three smurfs is the only thing that prevented my soft, mushy, pinkish-gray brains from being splattered all over the countryside.

After digging myself out from the cowsquishie, I stood up, went “Murp!” once or twice in an attempt to disenhornswoggle myself from the abortifacient skies looming over my head, and then began exploring my surroundings. The skies stared balefully down at me; the shrubbery and flubbery surrounding me taunted and jeered. I felt as if I were only 16¾ inches tall. A tiny hornet landed on the tip of my nose and stung me. Off in the distance, a hog snarked.

I sure wasn’t in the United States anymore.

After falling repeatedly in mile-long cow pies, and wallowing playfully in as many as I could, I became sure of it: This stretch of countryside had most definitely been used for a Patagonian cow-schtupping contest, most likely within the last three days! That was bad news—the worst news I had heard since the Great Fluffernutter Deluge of ’58 had wiped out 17.569 201% of my hometown—so I high-tailed it on out of there as fast as I could!

But the cow-schtupping revelation was only the tip of the iceberg of bad news that had found itself crashing into my skull not unlike the iceberg that slew the Titanic so many years ago. On my way back home from this alien land, I had not one, not four, but 310,509,211 run-ins with none other than… Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes! At each intersection with which I intersected, at each crossroads over which I crossed, at each fork in the road into which I stuck a fork (and spoon), I was bombarded by pile upon pile of… mile upon mile of… file folder upon file folder full of… Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes. They were all decked out in their golden parachutes: Wheedling and needling, nattering and flattering, capitulating and flatulating, they came at me, one by one, two by two, 567,801 by 567,801—until I screamed like a little girl and hid in the shrubbery, waiting for them all to pass.

The shrubbery didn’t like that one bit, so it expelled me violently. I dug a hole with my toes and hid there instead.

Once the danger was averted, and *69 was pressed, I skittered home screaming the Iranian national anthem at the top of my lungs and waving my hands salubriously over my head; I wore nothing more than my old fedora and a slice of pepperoni tied about my ankle. (That’s an old gnome-repelling trick, so I’ve been told.) Fortunately, I arrived home in one piece.

Upon my arrival, I finally heard some good news: Alyssa Milano is alive, along with her pretty little feet—both of them, and all ten of her toes (toenails included)! Thank you, Lord! Apparently, she had come to court prepared for my gluteus-maximal shenanigans, and had scampered out of the room a few seconds before my buttocks had launched yours truly through the domed ceiling of that unfortunate courthouse on Hegelian Avenue. But she’ll never try filing a lawsuit against Phillip Norbert Årp again, that’s for sure! Phbthpbhtphb!!!