...All the way Home

She looked like Henry Winkler; Arthur Fonzarelli; and I loved her. I loved the way she would slide into a room, any room, with her thumbs upturned and collar popped, stretching out those long, soft vowels: eeeyyy. Some people say Henry Winkler looks like Alf, the puppet, but I think all beauty has some strangeness of proportion. There was something about her, my little Alfalfa, that would rouse the strangest curiosity in small children. I suspect it was her long-nosed bushy-eyebrowed beauty that excited the youngsters so. They would run and cover their cute little faces and peek at her between their fingers, or creep behind the leg of a parent and peer out at her, stealing glances, until we'd leave the room. Sometimes, the little rug rats would be so delighted to see her that they'd scream and kick and punch her in the knees out of sheer exhilaration.

It only took a week of us being together before I started learning things about people, about the world, that I had never even noticed before. For instance, I never noticed how many people enjoy sour gum and bitter foods until me and my Alfalfonzarella started going out on the town; wherever we'd go, be it the cinema or a nice dinner, I'd see a few faces with scrunched lips and slitted eyes looking our way. Speaking of eating, she really enjoyed it, more than most people, and with such fervor. My darling had been endowed with a marvelously voluptuous Victorian figure, the likes of which were seldom seen; her arms were luxurious and full; her skin rested against her body gently, in delicate bilious folds, like plump peach-colored pleated sheets; her thighs were buttery and smooth, soft and white like cream. She was the foie gras of my heart.

One bright July afternoon when I noticed she had been nuzzled by the sun, her cheeks rosy and glinting with a lovely roasted luster, I found myself burdened with an insatiable desire for her flesh. All of my being, everything I'd learned in biology and through the dissections of S. domesticus yearned for her pillowy body; to be the puffed pastry, the veritable blanket to her pig. To behold her there, that day in the park, was but a paltry hors d'oeuvre, and I grew mad with a voracious and lustful hunger. She was my hallowed and hollowed donut, waiting to be filled with my Bavarian cream, my gonadal glaze, battered by my baby-batter. We fled the park, my piglet and I, and in a fit of rotund romance, after dashing madly toward my father's ramshackle station wagon, I drove to the parking lot of an abandoned malt bar. I'll never forget the look on her sunflower face when our lecherous inertia dealt a punishing blow to the beleaguered shocks, leaving the rear of the car collapsed and prostrate.

Oh how she squealed!