I’ve lost my foot before. It never strays far, thankfully, but it’s still annoying when one wakes up from a blissless dream involving Paris Hilton and Bella Abzug and said one finds the aforementioned foot off on its own.

This morning was no different than any other, with a few exceptions. The dream involved George Bush, tomatoes, and Orville Reddenbacher. I’m going to have severe migraines and ear fungus for the next five years after that dream. Anyway, I decided that I needed something much stronger for breakfast than coffee and Cheese Whiz. So I was fixing myself a chocolate milk and bourbon over scrambled eggs when I finally noticed that I was listing rather precariously to the right.

My right foot was gone.

I sighed. This day truly had not started well. The morning paper crashed through my kitchen window and as though I was on automatic pilot I shot the paper boy between the ears. I decided to leave him out for the neighborhood kids to find instead of burying him out back. I had to find my foot.

As I told you earlier, my foot never really traveled far. I found it just down the block trying to dig up the rose bushes in Charly Rome’s garden. My foot is allergic to roses, so this seems to be a usual stop before it gets sidetracked. I grabbed my foot, slapped it against my ankle and began stapling it in place. I used to use PermaGlue, but, as you can see, it wasn’t very permanent. Duct tape usually worked in a pinch, but if I wanted my foot to stay in place for more than 24 hours, staples did the trick. Not very pretty, but I wear black socks.

I know, I know. How can I subject my wandering foot to the confines of socks and shoes. Well, I’m just one of those old fashioned sorts that prefer those sorts of comforts. I suppose next you’ll be criticizing me for my Rosie O’Donnell body parts collection. Well, bugger off!

I have to go to work now that I have my foot back. Haven’t you got something better to do?

She caught her eye just as it drifted over her cup of coffee. Blushing, Mirine tucked it back into her eye socket and blinked a few times. Nasoor’s smile sparkled like burnt sugar. He found Mirine to be such a delight, that such trivial things as just happened really didn’t bother him. Picking up the cooked egg on his plate and slinging it across the restaurant toward the kitchen, he offered Mirine a handful of wine. Mirine sipped delicately just as the waiter caught the tossed egg.

“Monkey dung! Snorkeling gravel humpers! Grinding sempre fidelis odalisques!” The waitress snapped the order to the four-eyed cook who mumbled each item to himself just as he placed a fresh order upside down on the floor for pickup.

Nasoor had taken Mirine to the Snide Wittershunks Cafe twice before; it was a pleasant spot with not too much noise, and good food that was really cooked and not squirted out of a food prestidigitator. Mirine was gnawing on a piece of bacon rind as Nasoor considered his words carefully. He’d been thinking about this for two seconds; preparation had been months, though.

“Mirine,” he began softly, “We’ve googled the brine grift for weeks now and I think our compatibility ratios are more than…”

“Acceptable?” She smiled. “Logic grid escattlebutt dictates your actions, sweet lungs,” she blushed and caught her eye before it slipped out again.

Nasoor grinned and waved over the waiter. The waiter presented Nasoor with a blobby block of grey jelly. “Then there is no other path to take, Mirine. You will consent to be my flesh to flesh fruity goodness?” He presented Mirine with the wobbly jelly.

Mirine took it, squashed it on the table and retrieved the ring that swam within the mess. Placing the ring on the knuckle of her second finger, she landed a fine roundhouse punch to Nasoor’s chin causing him to flip backwards out of his chair and into the six-armed embrace of a giggly Cattermalwumpus. He muttered apologies and went to sit in Mirine’s lap. “Such joy!” he said as he bit Mirine’s lower lip. “I will be like a man stoned who walks through life with no pain.”

Mirine laughed, thinking of all the children Nasoor would present her with. It would be an eccentric life.

Written during very little sleep late in the Blogathon 2006