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Happy birthday, Alyssa Milano!

Feet worshipped on December 19, 2010.

While paternostering over fried moose synapse for breakfast this past Wednesday, it suddenly dawned on me that this coming Sunday (today! Oh, my God!) would be sweet, sweet Alyssa Milano’s birthday—which included her beautiful feet! Of course, this “dawning” was more of a re-dawning” than a simple “dawning” upon my tiny, addled little pate, since I had just recently demanded that Mayor Julian Rhoodie decree that December 19 (Sunday! Today! Oh, my doG!) be henceforth and forevermore known as Alyssa Milano Day.

Naturally, such an auspicious day as Alyssa Milano Day clearly called for the biggest party that I’d ever thrown… or perhaps even the biggest party ever thrown by mankind. So! First to decide what kind of celebratorials would befit such a glorious, glorious day (with such glorious, glorious little feet!). Perhaps another giant cauldron of bubbling, gurgling party mix? Or perhaps another fireworks display that could level entire city blocks? Should I prevent hypoglycemia and digititis from having any influence again? Should I this, or should I that? So many questions! So little time!

“Yappie, come hither!” I shouted archaically. “I desire your opinion on something!”

My faithful Carpathian Yapping Hound slinked into the room and looked at me sullenly, waiting for the other shoe to drop—since I had already thrown the first shoe at him on Monday for eating my entire tub of spruce mustard.

“Oh, Yappie, you unctuous little yipper-snapper,” I chortled merrily, snorting upon a gigglious pickle as I did so. “Come now! If I wanted to beat you with any more shoes, wouldn’t I be wearing my doofus-shaped goat suit?” Since there was no reasonable answer to such a bizarre, otherworldly question, I plowed forward as if I had never asked it in the thirst place: “Anyway, Yappie, what kind of party should I throw this week? Should it be a party… or a par-tay? How about a costume party where everyone dresses up as Ross Perot? Or… something involving mouse turds? Should there be fireworks? How many kilotons? Should I require everyone to attend barefoot—or in sandals? Should I ask Pam & Meg’s to cater—or just Pam? Do I need to order a crate of piñatas?! Oh, my Lord, what should I do—!?”

I panicked as I realized that there were a mere four days left until Alyssa Milano Day graced my calendar with her lovely, barefoot presence. I pweed. I pawed the air. Yappie yapped softly and sank to the floor, being a dog as usual. “Oh no, you don’t! No pretending to be a dog to get out of helping me this time, you! Now—answer me!” Yappie farted audibly; my nose turned inside-out, its hairs retreating all the way into my maxillary sinuses. “Fah! You’re no help! Now go crawl in a hole and wait for me to fill it with spiders!” Yappie turned and slinked doggishly out of the room. After making a note to buy a bag of fresh spiders later this afternoon or perhaps six days from now, I returned my thoughts—what few I actually had rattlin’ around in the ol’ brainpan—to Alyssa Milano Day and the party I would soon loose upon the world on such a supertastical day.

Oh, my Lord! I’ve been pooping in Fish Heaven all these years!

Hmm. And with that sudden epiphany out of the way, I returned my thoughts to Alyssa Milano Day…

One thing was for sure: Yours truly being known for doing the unexpected—showing up at the most unexpected times in the most unexpected places with the most unexpected things on his head, saying the most unexpected things in the most unexpected voices, and emitting the most unexpected noises from the most unexpected orifices—I simply had to do something different this time. Something… unexpectedly different!

Yet after π2 hours of pondering so hard that I nearly fractured my skull, I was no closer to solving my dilemma… although I had come to understand that that hot lesbian scene with Phoebe and Prue Halliwell that I’d seen on TV years ago would never happen again—and, even more àpropos, I now knew that stuffing six pounds of orpiment down my gullet didn’t accomplish anything, so perhaps I should try seven pounds of straight-up arsenic instead. I also had one hell of a mouseache!

“Yappie! Fetch me my arsenic!”

No answer of course.

“Dinglebuckey! Fetch me my arsenic!”

Dinglebuckey continued running in place within his hamster wheel, oblivious to his master’s ejaculations.

“Loquisha! Fetch me my arsenic!”

No answer. Then I remembered my little brown plumpkin had dumped me for the eigensmith that lived over on Swithenby Street.

“Ravna! Fetch me my…”

Oh, right. She had dumped me, again, this time due to my house’s complete lack of gorillas and the ooh-oohing and aah-aahing that she now so desperately craved.

“Fah and fahhh!! I’ll fetch it myself! You’re all useless!”

I plodded morodically into my kitchen and retrieved my entire case of tubes of mint-flavored arsenic paste.

Seven pounds of arsenic ingested in a series of vendacious, frog-like gulps, I then decided to “sleep on it.” Perhaps one of my terrifyingly banal, mundane dreams would inspire me as to what kind of party my town so richly deserved this Sunday…

…Thursday rolled around in the mud until it was filthier than a whole gaggle of naked and horny Spice Girls, and I awoke to find myself still quite alive: Apparently all those stories that Samuel Dreckers, arch–trained assassin, had told me about arsenic being highly poisonous to carbon-based life had proven to be greatly exaggerated! Unfortunately, I also awoke to find myself still without any ideas for an Alyssa Milano Day party, other than that idea I had for a private celebration (Pnårps only!) which involved every photo of her barefoot that I could find, a tub of Crisco, a roll of duck tape, a six-pack of hamsters, and a pair of jumper cables. That this was my only idea depressed me further and made me want to crawl in a hole in the ground until I froze to death.

Friday arrived, jolly as ever, while Despair gripped me like the icy cold hand of Despair gripping someone in Its icy cold hand. I was still completely bereft of ideas. All day I morosely wandered about my palatial and gorilla-less home, sock in mouth and howling piteously, until I melted through the floorboards out of sheer sadness and dribbled into a deep, deep chasm in the ground beneath the subbasement. And there I stayed until this morning when I finally crept, salamander-like, back to my computy room in order to begin scribbling about this depressing, miserable week all over my web blob.

Pwee, pwee, pwee… The future isn’t what it used to be…

[Feetnote: Is twelve, twelve better than ten, ten, ten or eleven, eleven? You be the smudge!]