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The disastrous ballad of Monica Lewinski’s feet

Shattered before August 15, 2010.

Reminding myself this past Friday that scandal-ridden Monica Lewinski has very pretty feet, but also reminding myself that thinking about them last week caused me to completely derail my train of thought (killing 23 and injuring over 200), I put this enjoyable little factoid out of my mind while attempting to compost my journal entry today.

Yet, finding myself unable to stop thinking about Monica Lewinski’s big, succulent feet and short, stubby toes, I demanded my brain to instead dwell upon the delectable slenderness of Alyssa Milano’s—or perhaps even the Spice Girls’—toes. Failing at this, even after cracking my cranium open with a hammer and sickle and threatening to feed my brain to cluster lizards if it didn’t do exactly what I said at flunce, I finally gave up and resigned myself to spend the day fantasizing about chubby Ms. Lewinski’s rather attractive feet and toes.

Hours having passed, I finally forgot about those big feet and returned to my computering machine in order to start scribbling in my web plog for the remainder of the day. However, not remembering anything notable having happened these past five days, I couldn’t think of anything to write about, so I returned at once to daydreaming about former president Bill Clinton’s little plaything and her feet.

More hours having passed, I once again forgot about whatever it was I was doing, and once again returned to my computering thingie in order to start scribbling in my web plog for the tiny slice of Friday that remained on my calendar. (The majority of Friday had been gobbled away by Langoliers.) Finding my computering machine computering away quietly on my desk, busily scanning its hard desk drive and much of the Internet for viruses, trojans, worms, and catechisms, I waited out the remainder of Friday and most of Saturday, giving it all the time it needed in order to finish its arduous and thankless task.

Saturday came and went, and still my computer churned and churned—and still I dwelt upon the sweet, thick succulence that was Monica Lewinski’s big ol’ feet and toes. That sudden use of such an informal contraction suddenly caused me to suddenly remember having spoken last week to Ol’ Bummie, keeper of the stumblebum stables on Wiggensworth Street, about helping me return home after having been stranded along the coast of northern California after a mishap involving hentai fantasies, the Philippines, Cthulhu, and over 802.11 feet of slippery and slimy, slimy tentacles. (Oh, so slimy!) Yet I quickly dismissed Ol’ Bummie from my mind (or whatever you call this wrinkled thing that resides in my head, resting gently atop my spinal column), and returned to imagining Monica Lewinski’s feet (and toes!), this time encased in pie.

“Pie! That’s it!” I suddenly shouted to the four winds (and one hamster). Dinglebuckey just looked at me curiously. “Pie is the answer! Pie is always the answer! Crudberry pie! No…! Malignant flobcumber pie… with Sicilian pepperoni on top! With… with… Psycho Chicken with Fingers on Top!

I stood up and hooted with sudden understanding and elation (and more extraneous parentheticals). I had done it. I had finally done it. Not only had I found a reason to write Psycho Chicken’s name in capital letters—placing him on par with the erstwhile coveted Englebee Troobles—but I had completely, totally, infragnostically excised Monica Lewinski’s juicy feet from my mind!

Aw, shit! There they were again, big and yummy as ever! “Don’t think about Monica! Don’t think about Monica! Don’t… think… about… Monica!!” I started chanting, standing up and knocking my computering chair over—scaring Yappie into a yapping fit, causing him to run around in circles, knock more stuff over, and finally leap out the window, in turn causing me to follow in a furious, futile, and nearly fatal attempt to prevent him from hitting the hard, hard ground below.

The counterintuitive laws of gravitation having taken a holiday today proved to be most unfortunate, for I, being much heavier than Yappie, intuitively fell at a much higher velocity; I passed him on the way down and landed first, with a splat! not unlike the sound of Ms. Lewinski stomping her bare feet on an unctuous flobcumber pie. Yappie landed shortly thereafter, directly on my buttocks, shattering my ass bone in a maximally gluteal disaster not seen since the treacle mines overflowed in 1829 and flooded a thousand acres of my town with sweet, sticky, deadly treacle.

Despite my shattered ass bone, flattened buttocks, and sixteen other miscellaneous injuries, I quickly recovered my aplomb (much like my wherewithal, something I absolutely cannot do without). I stood up, took one step, then collapsed into a disorganized and slightly constipated heap. For a moment, I just lay there, contemplating my impacted predicament. Finally regaining my aplomb a second time, I again stood up, took two steps, then one more, then a fourth, and then a fifth. Yappie loped along alongside me. I limped back into my palatial house and up my grand staircase, retiring to my seventh bedroom on the fourth floor. Wanting nothing more than to put Monica Lewinski and broken butt bones out of my mind, I pulled out my MP2½ player, plugged my ears into the headphone jack, and soothed my tired and slightly addled brain with the sweet, soothing sounds of Murderdeathcock, my favorite metal band.