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The hype was so all-consuming that we stayed up three hours past our bedtime to witness the historic, televised hatchet-burying reunion of the hero of our insomniac youth (David Letterman) and the goddess of our housebound, shiftless now (Oprah). The evening did not disappoint. After a monologue and Top Ten list dedicated to the Queen of Daytime, Letterman beckoned Winfrey to his desk. The World's Most Powerful Woman emerged, regally (Can Oprah move in any other way? No, she cannot. ) crossed the stage, and with arms outstretched and ready for a feud-ending embrace, was immediately floored by a surprise Letterman haymaker. The twin titans tumbled to the floor, and the next two minutes were a blur of fists, teeth, and razor-sharp manicures, the desperate grunts of the combatants mixing dissonantly with the nasal protestations of stunned bandleader Paul Shaffer.

Suddenly, a break in the violence. Letterman paused, as if to drink in the sight of his worthy opponent, his hands clutching fistfuls of Winfrey's hair. Eyes met. Letterman broke the eye contact, turning his face towards the blood soaking through his once-white shirt. His? Hers? No matter. Eyes met again. And then as quickly as fist first met unclenched jaw, the two grapplers were devouring each other, with every grunt and lip-smack of their greedy osculation captured by Letterman's lapel mic. As tattered jacket slipped off narrow shoulders and ball gown slid down torso, the cameras violently panned to the ashen face of the bandleader, whose silently mouthed Ohmy told us more about the carnal acts unfolding than any intrusive Steadicam work ever could.

The feud, it seems, is over.