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Bubble wrap and bubble butts

Thawed on January 6, 2008.

Happy new year, boys and girls!

Out of the hole, I am, this week. Out of the hole, and all thawed out. Out of the hole, thawed out, and ready to take on the world again by the skin of my teeth, fists of rage dangling from my arms and clenched teeth clenched so tight I actually cracked three of them after biting my tongue off, which dutifully flopped around on the ground under its own volition until I ground it into the ground with my hobbit-nailed jackboots.

Little brown Loquisha found me in the hole, she did.

Lifted me out with her sandaled toes, she did.

Little brown Loquisha dug me out and thawed me out and warmed me up with her warm little feet, she did.

Thaw, baby, thaw… mmmmnnnnhhhh…

Then, suddenly, there were dogs. Big dogs. Big dogs landing on my face!! Dogs—and bubble wrap. Dogs, terrified of bubble wrap. A question, aside: Why are dogs terrified by sounds like this and others—specifically the sound of rattling plastic bags? I have had several dogs over the years that were absolutely terrified by the sound of a plastic bag moving around, so much so that they would run away at the mere sight of the dreaded plastic. Loquisha, Loquisha? Yet another example of newbies trying to squeeze out someone who has been there for ages. Bracing myself against the face-landing dogs, which I had so artfully wrapped in duct tape (made from real ducks!), I stapled my nose to the bubble wrap and began popping the bubbles one by one with my tongue by tongue.

Loquisha giggled and batted me with her sandals, then stomped on the bubble wrap with her bare brown feet. Stomp, stomp, pop, pop! I grabbed her by her ankles, and… ooh, ooh, ooh, ahh, ahh, ahhh!!

The gorillas taught me well. Just like they taught Ravna.

This week’s entry makes absolutely no sense, and just tends to drift around from topic, to topic, to mind-dumbening topic…

Doesn’t it?

It’s like a stream of consciousness written by a man who is, in fact, unconscious. A meandering, babbling brook of disjoint statements, badly grammar, horible speling, and shattered prose. Mixed metaphors abound like cats on a hot tin last straw off a duck’s back, and gigantic piles of smittering lawn gnomes encrust and envelop the boundaries and bordaries of every sentence. More bad grammar appear, and moar bad speling. Moar, moar! Do not want!!

—!!

I think it’s over, but then again, it never began. I think… I think about the screaming stars, all the time, I do. Each and every …waking …minute …of my pea-brained …existence. Stars. Screaming stars. With a floating pi wrapped in bubble wrap, surrounded by Alyssa Milano and her scrumptious, voluptuous feet. Ah, slender, creamy white toes, don’t fail me now…

Titter, titter: I tittered softly.

“But it’s not ’er titters I adore, it’s ’er feet!” I shouted at the wall, now also covered in unpopped bubble wrap. Hmm, unpopped. Why is it unpopped? Did I forget to pop it? Did someone else forget to pop it? Certainly Jennifer Love Hewitt would simply adore squeezing the bubbles ’tween her elegant, slender toes and …pop! pop! pop! Titter, titteree!!

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks dropped by malicious kettle-gnomes intent on murdering yours truly by dropping a ton of bricks from the fifth-floor balcony of his palatial and gorilla-infested home: Jennifer Love Hewitt didn’t have the sexiest feet. Alyssa Milano didn’t have the sexiest feet, either. Not even the Spice Girls, with their handfuls of toes, had the sexiest feet of all.

Who has the sexiest feet of them all?

Loquisha did.

Lovely, little brown Loquisha.

Lovely, sandal-footed, little brown Loquisha, even in ’er gorgeous little sandals in this Pnårp-freezing weather.

Lovely, sandal-footed, little brown Loquisha who—while yours truly was busy conquering the moons of Neptune and naming them after his little brown Loquisha—blew up like a hot air balloon, grew an ass the size of a small moon, and started doing amateur pornography under the stage name “Bubble-Butt Lo’ Kweeisha.”

Bubble-Butt Lo’ Kweeisha.

…Bubble wrap!!!