Dedicated to my left foot–no, I did that last time. …Um…hmm…I suppose that I could dedicate it to Theophilus, who is now mostly cured except that the power-button doesn’t light up anymore. That’s a shame. Heh heh, syrup is a funny word. It makes me laugh. HA HA HA!

Once upon an inability to find anything about which to write, there was a neuro-optham…neuro-ophtal…neuro-ophtha-what’s-it, but he will not be mentioned again because his title is too hard to spell. Maybe he ought to be called a neuro-off-the-wall-ogist.

One day Mel Mar was driving the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, down Medical Drive; she turned into the hospital’s parking-lot, parked on top of a Mini Cooper, and turned off the engine. Sighing, she gathered up her things and got out of the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile. She looked up at the building with dread.

“Not again,” she muttered to a person whom she had never seen before and who then ran off to find a policeman.

Mel Mar began the long trek to the flaming front doors, through which and to elevators A, up to floor seven and down the hall to room 748 went she.

“Well, this is a fine mess,” said she when she had reached Footmonster’s bed.

“Hey Mel, pull up a chair,” said Footmonster, who was sitting up in bed, looking quite emaciated but merry.

“I like your hat,” said Mel Mar, gesturing to the turban of gauze wrapped round her comrade’s head as she pulled the only chair in the room out from under an old lady visiting a friend.

“Yeah, the BISHOP! said the same thing.”

“Oh, did he come to visit?”

“Ja, me visitavit. I’m more popular when I’m in the hospital.”

“Well, I like the fact that the turban covers the staples. Last time, I could see blood oozing out from under them.”

“Yeah, well, that was because I kept wiggling my ears.”

“…You’re stupid–you know that, don’t you, Footmonster?”

“Yeah.”

“Here, I brought you a ‘Get Well’ present.” Mel Mar tossed a box wrapped in toilet-paper and duct-tape across to Footmonster. “It’s a box of live frogs. I thought that you could have some fun with them.”

“Gee, thanks! I’ll just put them into this bedpan.”

“So how are you feeling?”

“Not bad really, but it surely is boring here. My only comfort is my collection of singing potatoes.”

“Are you sure that the doctors remembered to put your brain back in?”

“If they hadn’t, would I be able to do this?” asked Footmonster as she took one of the frogs out of the bedpan and balanced it on her nose while chewing gum and knitting an ugly sweater.

“…Maybe.”

“Ah, lunch is here!” Footmonster announced when a nurse appeared in a cloud of smoke and placed a tray in front of her. Mel Mar removed the lid from the plate.

“Did someone puke on this plate?” asked she.

“Nah, the food always looks like that,” said Footmonster, and she picked up her fork and buried her face in the food.

“I don’t see how you can eat that stuff.”

“It’s either that or starve.”

The nurse who had brought the food danced a little dance and said, “It’s better than what we used to feed our patients.”

“What was that?” asked Mel Mar.

“Arsenic–but this stuff is much better: fewer patients to bury.” The nurse finished her dance and disappeared in another cloud of smoke.

Mel Mar raised an eyebtow. “Interesting methods. So when will they let you go?”

“Beats me,” said Footmonster. “They said that I’m fine except that, for a while, I was thinking that I were a pair of scissors named Oswald, but I’m all better now.”

“So…who do you think that you are now?”

“Psh, Mel, I’m okay. I know who I am.” Footmonster stopped talking when a nurse came in to check her vital signs.

“How are you today, Footmonster?” the nurse asked jovially as he wrapped a cuff around the arm of Footmonster, who did not answer.

“He asked you a question, Footmonster,” said Mel Mar.

“What? My name’s not Footmonster,” said Footmonster, whose name was Footmonster. “I‘m Reginalda, the felicitous badger.”

Mel Mar stared at her. “Right, well, maybe you’re not ready to go home yet.”

The nurse cleared his throat and pressed the button for Start to measure Footmonster’s blood-pressure and pulse. Nothing happened.

“Hmm…according to this,” said the nurse, “you’re dead. I’ll just make a note of that.”

Footmonster looked up from the castle which she had been building out of her mashed potatoes. “Wow, that’s a blow. I hadn’t even noticed.”

“Sorry. I’m new at this,” said the nurse. “I’ll get someone to take a look at you.”

“A doctor?” asked Mel Mar.

“I was thinking of an undertaker,” replied the nurse, and he removed the cuff from Footmonster’s arm and went on to the next bed.

Footmonster sedebat immota, staring at the castle of mashed potatoes. “I hate to eat it now; it’s so pretty.”

Mel Mar was silent.

“Wow, I can’t believe that I’m dead.”

“You’re not supposed to die without me,” Mel Mar finally said. “We’re supposed to die together.”

“You didn’t seem to care about that when you killed me last time.”

“Well, that was different. You couldn’t say the alphabet. Besides, I’ve already apologized for that.”

“Yeah, well, this is a real bummer.”

“Does it–” Mel Mar was interrupted by the return of the nurse who had pronounced Footmonster dead.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I need to take your vital signs again. That other machine must not have been working; it said that everyone else were dead, too, and I figured that all of y’all couldn’t have been dead at the same time without showing any symptoms.”

“So I’m not dead?” asked Footmonster.

The nurse shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Well, so much for that–I guess that everything will get boring again now.”

“Well, at least we’ll not have to deal with an undertaker,” said Mel Mar.

“You know, Mel–I’ve learned much during this stay in the hospital. One thing is that these nurses don’t know how to wash long hair. Another is that no one appreciates music– especially at three o’clock in the morning. I wonder how they feel about frogs.”

“Are you allowed to get out of bed?”

“I don’t know,” said Footmonster as she leapt out of bed. “Ah, much better.”

“Maybe you ought to ask a nurse before you go running off.”

“Nah, waste of time.” Footmonster shuffled her feet over to the bedpan full of frogs and pulled one out. “Come on, froggie,” she said to it. “Let’s liven things up.”

What she did with the frog was a mystery even to her, but the result of her actions was that she was released from the hospital unusually early. She was glad to be home.

It was some time after her release when Footmonster decided to have the remaining staples in her head removed. (The other staples and the stitches from the second surgery had already been taken out with much pain.), and so, one fine winter’s morning, as Footmonster, having been told by the veterinarian who would be removing the staples to come by the fish-and-chips-stand at eight o’clock, lay sleeping on her stomach, the stupid annoying, little clock rang its stupid, annoying, little ring.

Footmonster reached over without raising her head from the pillow and fumbled to turn off the clock until she knocked it from the bedside table, the ringing continuing. She tried to pick the clock up from the floor without getting up but only succeeded in falling out of bed and hitting her head on the table. She turned off the alarm, threw the clock back onto the table, and then curled up on the floor, tangled in the blankets.

The clock ticked merrily away, unperturbed by its eventful morning, as Footmonster soon noticed. After a minute of its ticking, she jumped up from the floor, screaming in frustration at the clock, and fell down again. Finally she managed to trap the menacing clock in the table’s drawer and dragged herself away from bed.

“Hurry, Footmonster; you’re late!” said Mel Mar when Footmonster had at last emerged from her cave. “The clock is ticking!”

“Yes, that’s why I shoved it into the drawer,” mumbled Footmonster as she grabbed the keys to the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, still half-asleep.

“I’ll drive,” said Mel Mar, reaching to take the keys from Footmonster.

“No! I always must drive! Why do you want to drive?”

“Footmonster, you’re a wreckless fool, as blind as a bat, and too sleepy anyway; it’s not safe for you to drive!”

Footmonster would have burst into tears if she had had the energy, but instead she slid down to the floor, exhausted, and said, “Fine, then, you take out the staples.”

Mel Mar shrugged and yanked the last fourteen staples out. Footmonster screamed.

When the entire ordeal was over, Footmonster rubbed her eyes tiredly and fell asleep again. Mel Mar kicked her out of the way and moseyed over to the bathroom; she opened the refrigerator, looking for a drink; but the refrigerator was stuffed full of Vancomycin.

“Crud,” she said to Sushi (Footmonster’s pet goldfish), who was swimming in the toilet, “I had forgotten about the drugs.”

Mel Mar closed the refrigerator and went to wake Footmonster.

“What–Santa? Is that you?” Footmonster mumbled. She looked up at Mel Mar and screamed.

“Footmonster, we have a problem.”

“No problem is so great that a person would have to be woken,” said Footmonster, and she lay back down and closed her eyes.

“Footmonster, the fridge is full of Vancomycin; there’s no room for Dr Pepper in it.”

Footmonster’s eyes shot open. “WHATEVER SHALL WE DO?!”

“Well, we have to get rid of the Vancomycin.”

“Or we could buy another fridge.”

Mel Mar scratched her head. “Why don’t we at least try to get rid of the Vancomycin first?”

“Okay, so how do we do that? We can’t just pour it down the sink–that’s one of the strongest antibiotics developed by man.”

“Well, maybe the nurse from home-health-care can tell us what to do with it.”

“What all is left?”

“The supplies for hooking up the IV and several bags of the drug.”

Footmonster put on her Cap for Thinking (which was nothing more than her repaired magic shoebox with “Thinking…” scrawled on the side). “Hmm…you know, Mel–there are probably millions of folks desperate for this stuff. Let’s keep the supplies and open a lemonade-stand.”

“And how does the Vancomycin fit into this brilliant plan of yours?”

“Well, instead of lemonade, we’ll sell Vancomycin.”

“So…a Vancomycin-stand.”

“Yeah! I bet that we can get lots of cash this way.”

“Is there any chance that selling this stuff on the street is illegal?”

Footmonster shrugged. “I don’t know–maybe. You know what they say: ‘The buyer is too good to be wrong.’”

“…I thought that it was, ‘Let the buyer beware.’”

“Really? That’s odd. Well, whatever it is, if you’re concerned about legality, then we’ll just pour the Vancomycin from the bags into cups and say that it’s water from the Fountain of Good Looks.”

“That’s a great idea! What shall we call ourselves?”

“I don’t know. I always wanted to open a restaurant and call it Get Stuffed.”

“Well, I suppose that we don’t really need a name. How much shall we charge per glass?”

“Huh, well, this stuff has to be expensive. What do you think? A hundred dollars?”

“How much money will that get us if we sell all of it?”

Footmonster stared at Mel Mar. “Are you sick, Mel? That’s a math-related question.”

Mel Mar gasped. (Doesn’t she gasp in every adventure?) “Oh no! I’ve been cursed!”

“Quickly, Mel,” said Footmonster, thrusting a cup at Mel Mar, “drink this–it’ll cure anything; and, if it won’t cure it, then at least it’ll kill it.”

“Are you kidding?! I saw how badly that stuff affected you when you had the PICC-line; I can only imagine how bad it would be to drink it.”

“Oh, come on; it can’t be that bad.”

“I’d rather not spend the rest of the week vomiting; and what would happen if I turned out to be allergic to it?”

“What are the chances of that happening? It’s very unlikely.”

“You’re allergic to it.”

“Yeah, well, it only gave me a rash–no big deal.”

Mel Mar still refused to drink the Vancomycin, and, after days of trying to persuade her, Footmonster stormed off and locked herself in the Closet of No Return. Mel Mar sighed.

A few long minutes passed before Footmonster finally returned to the sitting-room, in which Mel Mar was still sitting. (Well, what else would one do in a sitting-room?)

“Look, Footmonster,” said Mel Mar when Footmonster had sat down; “I’m sorry, but I destroyed the Vancomycin.”

“The what?”

“The Vancomycin.”

“Pardon?”

“Are you just acting stupid because you’re still angry?”

“Angry about what?”

“Footmonster, are you okay?”

“Pardon?”

“Your memory must be–oh, that’s right; you lost it.”

“Lost what?”

Mel Mar sat in thought for a moment. “Footmonster, may I speak to Philolaches the Philosopher?”

“Sure.” Footmonster popped open the top of her skull and pulled out Philolaches the Philosopher, who was wearing a shirt with his idol, Brain from Pinky and the Brain, on it.

He struggled to escape from Footmonster’s hands and growled, “Hey, what’s all this about? What do you want?”

Footmonster watched his struggle impassively She looked over at Mel Mar and then back at Philolaches the Philosopher. “I don’t remember.”

Mel Mar rolled her eyes. “I wanted to speak with you, Philolaches the Philosopher.”

“Why do you want to speak with me?” he demanded.

“I was hoping that you may be able to tell me a little something about Footmonster’s memory.”

“Obuns Obadiah? Haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Tell me more.”

“Well, Bregans would have more information than I–he knew Obuns Obadiah better than anyone else.”

“Where is Bregans?”

“In Switzerland, with his mistress.”

“Poo.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I want to try to find Obuns Obadiah, but I have no idea where he was last seen or how he looks or–”

“He’s a fruitcake.”

“Pardon?”

“He’s a slice of fruitcake.”

“Oh.”

“When Footmonster lent you Bregans, Obuns Obadiah disappeared.”

“Would Bregans have any idea what happened to Obuns Obadiah?”

“Perhaps–it’s worth a try.”

“Huh, well, thanks, Philolaches the Philosopher; you’ve been very helpful.”

“No! My reputation’s ruined!” Philolaches the Philosopher screamed and began to writhe in insanity on the floor.

Mel Mar ignored him and turned to Footmonster. “To the Goatmobile?”

“What?”

Pandemonium ensued for some reason, and, even though Footmonster had no idea what was going on, the two superheroines leapt into the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, and sped off towards Switzerland.

After seconds of traveling, at last Footmonster and Mel Mar arrived at some place.

“Well, here it is,” said Footmonster: “the beautiful slopes of Switzerland.”

Mel Mar looked at the scenery in puzzlement. “But this is a desert.”

“Sheesh, Mel, complain, complain, complain! Deserts have feelings, too! Come on–let’s do whatever we’re supposed to do.”

Mel Mar sighed and muttered, “‘It’s an easy ride from good times to the blues.’”

“Blue what? Don’t drag your feet; we’d better start across this desert if we want to be home by teatime.”

“But it’s already way past teatime.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s…” Footmonster dug out a pocket-watch. “Oh yeah, you’re right. Oh well, let’s get going.”

“Are we going all that way on foot?”

“Yep.”

“Why can’t we take the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile?”

“Don’t question it!” snarled Footmonster as she trudged off in search of Bregans, humming their theme-song.

They had been traveling for a few hours when Footmonster suddenly stopped and said, “You know–this trip is taking much longer than I had thought. Let’s go back and get the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile.”

“Footmonster, are you mad? Go back all that way?”

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

Mel Mar growled and turned from Footmonster, marching furiously away.

“Wait, Mel!” called Footmonster.

“What do you want now, Footmonster?”

Footmonster pointed to a flying carpet above them. “There he is!”

The carpet swooped around, apparently unmanned, and landed neatly beside Footmonster.

“Ahoy there, mateys!” came a voice from the carpet. “What’re you two landlubbers doing out in the middle of the ocean?”

“Ocean?” said Mel Mar. “We’re not in the–” Suddenly the sand turned to saltwater; and Mel Mar and Footmonster fell below the surface of the water for a second and emerged, coughing. Bregans helped them onto the magic carpet.

“Footmonster! Mel Mar!” exclaimed Bregans in surprise. “What are y’all doing here?”

Footmonster spat out some water and said, “I don’t know.”

“We’re trying to find Obuns Obadiah,” said Mel Mar, “and we thought that you could help us.”

“Ah, yes,” said Bregans, “I remember Obuns Obadiah. I also remember that he was never very helpful. He was an amusing slice of fruitcake but not very affective with regard to his purpose as a memory.”

“Well, he has to be better than nothing,” said Mel Mar.

“I don’t know about that, but, if you’re determined to find him, …I may be able to help you–though you won’t like what I have to tell you.”

Mel Mar glanced at Footmonster, who was picking seaweed out of her ear in wonder. “We’re determined.”

“Very well, here he is.” Bregans held out his hand, and there was Obuns Obadiah, looking rather ashamed.

“Well, that was easy,” said Mel Mar.

“He’s been studying math since he was lost,” explained Bregans.

“Math? What’s that?” asked Footmonster.

“When I realized what I had done,” said Obuns Obadiah in his deep, sorrowful voice, “I came to Bregans for help. We’ve been working on my rehabilitation but have had little luck.”

“That’s because we need to abolish math before you can be saved,” said Mel Mar. “To the Goatmobile!”

She looked around at the ocean surrounding them. “Where is the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile?”

“Where did you park it?” asked Bregans.

“At the edge of the desert.”

“…This is an ocean–not a desert.”

“It was a desert when we arrived.”

“Impossible!”

“It is possible,” said Footmonster, surprising everyone. “I saw something similar in an episode of Duck Tales.”

Mel Mar turned to her. “How can you remember that without a memory?”

“I always remember the important things, Mel.”

“Right, well, how are we going to get the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile?”

“Simple,” said Footmonster. “It answers to a special call. If you play any chord in C-sharp minor on a piano, it will find you.”

“Where are we going to find a piano out here?”

Footmonster reached into her left opcket–opcket?–pocket and pulled out a baby grand piano. “It was my great-great-aunt’s. Who wants to do the chord? My ears are still messed up; otherwise I’d volunteer.”

“What about your ears?” Obuns Obadiah asked. “I need to catch up on things.”

“Shall I do the chord?” interrupted Mel Mar. Footmonster nodded and stuck a finger into her right ear as Mel Mar played the chord. A few moments later, the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, zoomed up to the magic carpet, floating next to it.

“Not bad,” said Bregans. “I prefer my carpet, though–plenty of space for two superheroines, one brain, one memory, and a baby grand piano.”

“Ah yes, I don’t want to forget that,” said Footmonster, and she shoved the piano back into her pocket.

“I take it that you’ve returned the harpsichord to your parents,” said Mel Mar, manoeuvering her way to the passenger’s side.

“No, I forgot.”

“Oh. Wow. Amazing pants.”

“Well, I guess–wait; what are we doing now?”

“We’re going to abolish math to save Obuns Obadiah.”

“Oh, fun. Come on, Obuns Obadiah, you’re coming with us.” Footmonster picked up the slice of fruitcake and leapt into the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile. “Thanks, Bregans!” she called as they sped away–VROOM VROOM!

The three abolished math, and everyone was happy…except one person….

“I’ll get you for this, Footmonster and Mel Mar,” said that person, who was conveniently standing in so shadowy a room that his face could not be seen. “You’ll never get away with this, you fiends!”

Suddenly a hippopotamus fell from the sky and squished him, whose name never mattered because none of the things in the last couple of paragraphs ever happened.

What happened was that Footmonster, Mel Mar, and Obuns Obadiah stopped at an IHOF (International House of Fish*) for a quick snack and were seated at a booth in a corner near three nuns.

Footmonster turned to Mel Mar after a waitress had handed them menus and said, “Do you ever feel as if you’re in A Goofy Movie? I wonder where the Elvis-impersonator is.”

Mel Mar looked over at the nuns and shrugged. “I always feel that way. I just wonder where the cartoonists are hiding.”

“Maybe under a rock somewhere. We’ll find them eventually. They cannot escape!”

Mel Mar nodded, and a moment of silence passed as they perused their menus.

“Man, there’s nothing but fish on this menu,” said Footmonster when she had read the entire thing.

“Vell, yes,” said Mel Mar, closing her own menu and laying it to the side, “this is an IHOF–they serve fish.”

“That’s preposterous! I hate fish!”

“’Scuse me,” said the waitress, who had returned with their drinks. She set their catfish-milkshakes in front of them. “Are y‘all ready to order?”

“Yeah,” said Footmonster, “I’d like a pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, and anchovies.”

“Um…this is an IHOF. We only serve fish here. We can do the anchovies–just nothing else.”

“What? Ugh, I hate this place! Fine–I’ll have the haddock-pancakes.”

The waitress rolled her eyes and scribbled onto a fish-shaped notepad Footmonster’s order and then Mel Mar’s order of tilapia-tacos and Obuns Obadiah’s of Dead-Trout-Surprise. As she headed off to the kitchens, Footmonster took a large gulp of her catfish-milkshake and gagged.

“Ugh,” said she, “this is disgusting.”

“What–the shake?” asked Mel Mar, sipping her own. “It tastes okay to me.”

“I can’t stand it; it’s like drinking monkey-vomit.” Footmonster shuddered and gulped a third of the liquid down.

“If it’s so disgusting, then why are you still drinking it?”

“Sheesh, Mel, if I knew the answers to all of the amazing, mind-boggling questions of the universe, I’d finally understand why my flying pants don’t fly anymore.”

“They never did fly. They’re not flying pants. They’re just regular pants.”

Ignoring Mel Mar, Footmonster rolled her eyes and drank more of the milkshake.

“Well, Obuns Obadiah,” said Mel Mar, turning to Footmonster’s memory when she had noticed Footmonster‘s lack of attention, “you are the memory of the great Footmonster. You must have some good stories to tell.”

“Oh yes, let me tell you about this one time–” began Obuns Obadiah, but Footmonster flicked the imaginary ashes from her imaginary cigarette at him and gave him a look of warning.

“Remember our agreement, Obie,” she said, blowing imaginary smoke into his face.

“Don’t call me ‘Obie,’” he growled.

“And don’t spread those lies around.”

“Fine.”

Obuns Obadiah turned away from her and stared through the window; Footmonster determinedly looked the other way.

Soon the waitress returned with a tray of their food balanced on her head and carefully passed their plates round to them.

“Excellent–food!” said Footmonster, tossing her imaginary cigarette into an imaginary barrel of gasoline. The three thanked God with many a charred thighbone and eagerly dug into their food.

“So what’s the surprise of your Dead-Trout-Surprise, Obuns Obadiah?” asked Footmonster, cutting off a piece of a pancake.

Obuns Obadiah was busy whacking the trout on the table. When the fish finally stopped flipping about, he answered, “The surprise is that it isn’t dead yet.”

All was quiet for a moment, but, as soon as Footmonster had stuck a forkful of pancakes into her mouth, she spat the food into Obuns Obadiah’s face.

“Bleh–these pancakes taste like fish!” she exclaimed, drawing much attention to their table. “How revolting!”

“Footmonster, we’ve gone over this already,” said Mel Mar impatiently. “This is an IHOF; you are eating fish; that is why the pancakes taste like fish.”

“I hate fish!”

“Then why did we bother coming to this restaurant?! You live in a fantasy-world and never get anything right,” said Mel Mar. “Wake up to reality, Footmonster!”

(Shall I say it?… Yes, I shall.) Footmonster burst into tears. “You’re so mean!” she sobbed.

Mel Mar rubbed her forehead in frustration. “Look–forget about our food; let’s just go–math needs abolishing.”

“Polishing?” said Footmonster.

Mel Mar would have rolled her eyes if everyone else in the story had not already done so and dragged Footmonster out of the IHOF, Obuns Obadiah following.

“I hate the word presently,” Footmonster was saying, stumbling across the parking-lot behind Mel Mar to the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile. “No one ever uses it right.”

Mel Mar stopped beside the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile. “Footmonster, unlock the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile.”

“Why are you being so mean to me, Mel?” asked Footmonster, a tear rolling down her face.

“Because you deserve having someone be mean to you. You’re being an idiot, and you’re embarrassing us. Grow up.”

Footmonster sniffled and blew her nose on her shirt. “That hurts, Mel. It really hurts.”

The three leapt into the Goatmobile, which really ought to be called the Devilrubberduckyonwheelsmobile, and, without speaking to one another, sped off to abolish math.

When math had been abolished and all was good, they returned home to the castle for a cup of tea.

Footmonster sipped her tea in thought. “You know–tea is good, but I’ve never been able to stand the stuff.” She poured the rest of the tea onto the carpet, raised her hands high above her head, and bellowed, “Grow, my little mushrooms; grow!”

Mel Mar watched Footmonster for a moment and then said to Obuns Obadiah, “It’s difficult to communicate with someone who has the mental capacity of a daffodil.”

Obuns Obadiah nodded in agreement and bit off the corner of a biscuit. “This biscuit tastes…um…interesting,” said he. “What’s in it?”

“Lard–and plenty of it!” shouted Footmonster gleefully. “And flies’ wings and mud.”

“Really.”

“And soap and peanuts.”

“Er…yummy.”

“Yeah, my favorite recipe–barbecued to perfection.”

“Barbecued? How…interesting.”

Footmonster turned to Mel Mar and said, “You know that a person only calls something ‘interesting’ when he really doesn’t like it.”

Mel Mar nodded in agreement and bit–wait; that can’t happen. Oh, I’m getting confused. Why is there singing in my head?…

“Well, Footmonster,” said Mel Mar, “this has been a successful day. I don’t remember how it started out, but it’s good anyway, and now we may relax until our next adventure, safe in the knowledge that you have your memory back.”

Footmonster nodded in agreement and–Argh! Not again!

*About IHOF…I didn’t come up with that. Doctor Travis said that maybe Ross had, but Ross says no, …so WHO CAME UP WITH THE IHOF?