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Alyssa Milano & the new adventures of Hitler

Snickerdickered on March 30, 2008.

Having resolved last week never to speak of Anna Ohura’s graceful Japanese feet again, instead vowing to obsess over none other than the smooth succulence of Alyssa Milano’s feet and toes, henceforth and forevermore, I set about burning down every part of my house in which I’d ever considered Anna Ohura to be sexier in the feet.

This, unfortunately, meant my entire home had to go.

I decided that the most efficient course of action would be not to burn each room down individually, seeing as how they were all interconnected, but instead to knock out all the walls and pull up all the carpets and fixtures, and then pile everything—walls, fixtures, furniture, and oatmeal cookies—in the massive main parlor before setting it alight. I spent most of Tuesday and Wednesday doing this, furiously hooting and pweeing as I went about swinging the sledgehammer and demolishing my palatial—but no longer gorilla-infested, ha!—home.

At last, the pile was built. I picked up my last copy of The New Adventures of Hitler, ignited it by rubbing it rapidly against the side of my nose, and tossed it into the pile. A quick bout of flatulence set my buttocks ablaze, too, which was just fine, seeing as how I’d suddenly decided I wanted to toast my anus in preparation for the honey bunches of goats that were headed my way at a rapid pace.

Britney Spears! Naked and covered in motor oil!

With the fire blazing, and my buttocks turning a nice charred black, I decided to kick back and relax in the living room while the house went up around me. (I’d survive—I’d done it before; I can do it again.) I powered up my industrial-grade MP3 player and let it play “Rabbit-Phallus” by Dishwasher Synergy while I dozed off amidst the fiery blaze.

But suddenly (an awful lot seems to happen around here suddenly, doesn’t it?), and with much fur and lice, the English football team Nottingham Forest designed their home kit after the uniform worn by Garibaldi and his men and have worn a variation of this design since being founded in 1865. It was then (now, not 1865) that I noticed the killercraft circling above my head, and I remembered that I hadn’t seen Karl Winerboffer in almost two years—although my town had named a street in honor of his family after the goatmulching accident had claimed his sister, brother, and seven toes back in 2003.

“Goatmulch!” I shouted suddenly, shocked and appalled that I’d forgotten to buy a sack of it last time I went to the gardening store. And here I’d laid down all those goats on my carefully pedicured lawn a few weeks ago… and I’d forgotten to cover them with a patina of goatmulch! Oh no!

I ran around frantically, panicking, trying to put the fire out, but it was no hope: Magyarization was fully underway, and I couldn’t stop it. The house burned to the ground, through the ground, and then all the way to China. And waiting around for the heat death of the Universe would be no use, either—my house was gone, and wasn’t coming back.


I turned pale and slithered lithe porcupines from my pores before giving up the ghost.