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A dark and stormy night

Stormdrained on February 6, 2011.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell in torrents; except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is at 229B Bouillabaisse Boulevard that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

It was, to be precise, eight minutes past midnight, and I was sitting comfortably in the parlor on the ground floor of my palatial home: Sitting in a really big, comfy chair and contemplating the sublime perfectitude of Britney Spears’ lovely feet and toes. If you’ve ever been to Heaven, these were twice as nice. Briefly remembering that hot lesbian scene with Na’Toth and Delenn that I’d seen on TV years ago temporarily distracted my addlepated little mind from such fetishistic daydreamings (even though it was not, and had not been for hours, daytime), but nothing short of Psycho Chicken With Fingers On Top bursting through my window and pecking my eyes out would take my mind off of Britney’s sweet, sweet feet. This episode of almost Assburgers-like perseveration wasn’t nearly as bad as last time, but it was nearly as good.

“Sublime!” I suddenly bolted from my chair, coming within millismoots of hitting the ceiling. “Perhaps another trip to the sublime plenum was called for!” I then hit the ceiling. “Ow!”

But no, there would be no trips to the sublime plenum anytime soon: For not only had I long forgotten where the sublime plenum was located, but so long as President Piggy-Man and his familiars stalked my town after nightfall, I wouldn’t be going anywhere at night anytime soon.

And then, amidst rising horror, I realized that, whereas on Momday I had been commissioned to paint a sailor in the midst of a shipwreck, I had instead realistically rendered a cypress tree. An entire cypress tree. And now it was 12:08 in the afternoon on Smunday—less than an hour before I would have to deliver my artwork. And here I was perseverating over the lusciousness of the delightfully blonde Britney Spears: The small of her back, the arch of her feet…

“Wundt, Wundt, Wundt!” I babbled, like bubbling water, as I ran in tight circles around my darkened living room, contificating on my inestimable predicament. Purple patches flashed before my eyes; ceramic garden gnomes accreted in the doorway and danced upon the event horizon of my panicry. “Wundt, Wundt, Wundt, Wundt, Wundt, Wundt… Wundt-Wundt-Wundt!!”

And then suddenly, a knock at my door. “Aaaaiiiieeee!!” I quacked, diving behind what in the inky, octopus-like darkness I believed to be my couch. “I’m not home! No one’s home! No one’s here but us psycho chickens with fingers on top!”

“Phillip! What the hell are you doing in there!?” a voice cried out, obviously miffed, likely angry, and almost assuredly exasperated. It sounded like Mr. Wilson in his night clothes. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was still 12:08 in the morning, so yes—definitely in his night clothes.

“What do you mean!?”

“What the hell are you doing in my closet babbling to yourself!?” He sounded even madder than the last time we had one of our completely nonsensical run-ins. And then, I yerked: His closet!?

“Yerk! Your closet!?”

“Yes, my closet! What the hell are you doing in th—”

“Wait! Is that Mr. Wilson in his night clothes?” I stalled for time. My brain was still reeling at the awesome footbeauty of Britney Spears, and I would have to engage in quite a bit more synaptic wrangling before I could find an answer for Mr. Wilson’s closetty question.

“…It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, Phillip,” Mr. Wilson answered… tediously.

“So are you in your night clothes?”

“…No. But why are you in my bedroom closet?”

“Because it seemed like a good idea at the time?” My timid answer was phrased in the form of a question—Alex Trebek would be proud.

A loud sigh came from the other side of the door. “Just… get the hell out of here!”

“This is outrageous!” I continued stalling with the first thing that came to mind after my Spearsian daydreams: “But I’m at a party! Outrageous! In my sexy jeans! Outrageous! I’m on the scene! Outrageous! My s—”

Get out!!! The door swung open. Yup, he looked mad.

I continued: “Why are you lookin’ at me like I’m some kind of freak? Why don’t you do somethin’!?”

Wilson just stared at me.

The Quincunx of Heaven running low, there was only one more thing I could do: Claim I was busy stuffing dermal regenerators up my nose and growing sheets of extra skin out my buttocks. I proceeded to do so—to claim to do so, not to do so—at once. Mr. Wilson proceeded to manhandle me to his front door handle and throw me out on my buttocks.

The door slammed. I looked back and let out a sudden cry: All along, it’s been 231 Bouillabaisse Boulevard where our scene lies, not 229B! The horror! The horror!