Dedicated to Mel Mar herself, who always inspires me

Once upon an evil monk’s left nostril, there was a story, and here it is: another amazing tale of our two most heroic superheroines ever to have set foot on this earth-thingy, Footmonster and Mel Mar! Dum da da dum!

One day Footmonster and Mel Mar were having a pleasant conversation over tea and biscuits; they were discussing the scientific makeup of sand because they had discussed everything else in the world, and so the scientific makeup of sand it was to discuss.

“So, the scientific makeup of sand,” said Footmonster.

“Yes, the scientific makeup of sand,” replied Mel Mar.

There was a long pause during which Mel Mar was humming and staring at the ceiling, Footmonster poking at the incision in her stomach, both at a loss for any intelligent talk on the scientific makeup of sand. No sound could they hear except the buzzing of an insane fly and Mel Mar’s humming. A droplet of blood oozed from the incision on Footmonster’s stomach.

“Fish paste, not again!” cursed she as the wound opened itself and bled merrily.

“Here,” said Mel Mar, passing a bottle of Elmer’s glue across the table to Footmonster, who thanked her with great thankful thanks of thankfulness. “We’re gonna run out of that stuff soon if you don’t quit messing with that incision.”

“I know; I know, but it’s there; it itches, and it’s cool. How can I ignore such a thing?”

Mel Mar shrugged with all the practiced nonchalance of her years--whatever that means--and finished her tea with a grimace.

“What did you put into the tea this time?” she asked with disgust.

Footmonster dabbed the fresh glue onto her incision thoughtfully. “I don’t remember, but I’m sure that it wasn’t sanitary.”

“Oh, that’s fine then.” Mel Mar stretched tiredly and got up from her seat by the table in order to return to her redecoration of the kitchen, of which there was little left for redecoration, but its state of ruin did not deter her from the task, which she had started that morning, and, whistling while she worked for some odd reason, she began to staple severed heads to fragments of the walls. Why she was using staples instead of nails was a mystery, but soon her supply of staples was exhausted anyway, and she was forced to seek help from Footmonster.

“Footmonster, I’m out of staples. Do you mind if I borrow some from your head?”

“Don’t mind at all--help yourself.”

So Mel Mar plucked a few stapels from the incision in Footmonster’s head and turned to go back to the kitchen.

“Wait, Mel,” called Footmonster. “I have something very important to the plot to say.”

Mel Mar came back to Footmonster and sat down.

“Well,” said Footmonster, “I know that we’re supposed to be abolishers of math and all, but I have an unusual job for us today.” She rose from her chair and began to pace importantly. “As you know, in the past few years I have had so many MRI scans of my brain done that I have lost count.”

“You’ve had two.”

“Oh. Right, well, then, in the past few years I’ve had two MRI scans of my brain done. The problem which arose was--” She stopped suddenly to encourage her son to chew on his toys and not on her toes.

“So, where was I?”

“You were nowhere!” bellowed Mel Mar ominously. Ominously?

“So, oh yes, the results of the scans… The doctors were puzzled by the results because they showed no brain. Of course, you and I already know the history of my brains.”

“Yes, I’m borrowing one, and the last thing that you heard about the other was that it had passed out in a dark alley in Wales.”

“Has yours returned from the opera yet?”

“No, even though the short lady has already sung.”

“It was wearing a top hat, was carrying a cane, and was with Ichabod the purple gorilla, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Mel Mar sighed mournfully.

“I always keep my third eye out for it but have had no luck. Sad times, sad times…”

“So how did the doctors react to your lack of a brain?”

“Oh, I’d almost forgotten about that. Well, they were perplexed, said that the entire thing was strange, and decided that I ought to have brain-surgery.”

“It’s hard to believe that anyone can be that stupid.”

“Yes, and all their attempts at fixing my problems have been fruitless.”

“Wow--so no strawberries or pineapples or mangos?”

“None. So my question for the day, the one which we must answer, is this: on whose brain did the doctors operate? It certainly could not have been either of mine.”

“This sounds like a job for…US!”

“If only we had some groovy…um…” Footmonster scratched her head, and something outside exploded. “I forgot what I was saying. Did it have something to do with cheese?”

Mel Mar shook her head. “No, Footmonster. No more cheese.”

Footmonster burst into tears.

“Good heavens!” said Dr. Grantly.

Footmonster dried her tears with her hair (what little was left of it after the surgery) and looked at Mel Mar with a gleam of determination in her eyes…, or maybe it was insanity.

“Mel Mar,” said Footmonster, “help me discover whose brain is in my head, and I shall buy an ax.”

“Ah, nunc rem intelligo.”

“What?”

“Who?”

“Waffles?”

So...Footmonster and Mel Mar leapt into the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, and crashed through the walls of their castle and sped off through the city. After several days of traveling, Mel Mar turned down the volume of the CD-player of the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, and spoke.

“Footmonster, I have an announcement to make.”

“So make it, my friend.”

“My announcement is this: I have a question to ask.”

“So ask it, my friend.”

“I’ve forgotten it.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Darn.”

“Yep.”

“So do you mind if I turn the music back up then?”

“I DO MIND, for now I remember my question. It is this: what are we doing?”

“We’re driving around in the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile.”

“Yes, but why? Wouldn’t it make more sense to cut open your head to discover whose brain you have?”

Footmonster slammed on the brakes, causing the start of World War III. “By Jove, Mel. You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

Still amazed by the simplicity of the solution and that she had overlooked it, Footmonster pulled her spare chainsaw out of her back pocket and handed it to Mel Mar. “Mind the hair.”

Mel Mar nodded and, as carefully as she could do, cut off the top of Footmonster’s head. She gasped.

“It’s a head of cabbage!”

Footmonster jumped backwards in surprise and fell onto the ground next to the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile. The cabbage within her skull rolled out into a puddle of rainwater.

“Well, how about that--it’s a bloody cabbage,” said Footmonster. “Case solved, I guess.”

“Yeah. A good day’s work.”

So Footmonster and Mel Mar abolished math happily ever after or something like that.

The End