Thursday, 12 March 2009

Yes We Can Plagiarise

So I stirred from my boofy winter hibernation.

What had changed in the world?

I was hungry. In other words, nothing had changed.

But lo. No, that's not a typo. That's a Boofhead waxing lyrical.

But I digress. But lo, something had changed on yonder shores. There's some more lyrical waxing. As distinct from bikini-line waxing, which I'll be attending to shortly.

By yonder shores I mean a place called America. Never been there myself, though the two-legged dogs have, and they reckon it wouldn't be a bad place if only they'd learn to spell. I mean to say - color. Puh-leeeeeeeze!

But I digress yet again. Apparently, while I was hibernating, there was somewhat of a changing of the guard in said America in terms of the leadership of the joint. Some cove called Obama slipped into the carver at the top of the table while I was snoozing and took over as boss cocky. That's Australian for head honcho. I might have been trapped here in Italy for nearly four years but I haven't forgotten my radici. That's Italian for roots.

Anyways, I was about to let this snippet of news sail way over my head, as I let everything sail way over my head when my tummy's rumbling louder than a Swiss avalanche, when I stumbled across this while I was Googling for a topless photo of Lassie:

And, I'm here to tell you, I fair choked on my dog biscuit.

If this isn't the most blatant case of plagiarism since some cove called Shakespeare took my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather's - give or take a great - play called Boofhead and Juliet, changed its name and passed it off as his own, then I'll go hee for tiggy.*

Now. Years and years ago, I stood for election as Obedience School Boofhead. Every Obedience School has its idiot - the clown who sits up the back gazing out the window; distracting the conchy, teachers'-pet Pugs sitting down the front by flicking spitballs at them off your ruler; you get the general drift.

I was up for it. I campaigned hard. I even licked babies.

But this is what hauled me over the line:

My campaign poster.

Which someone on a yonder shore obviously saw. And pinched.

If this cove Obama wants to shove a couple of trillion bail-out brisket bones in my direction, I'm willing to forgive. Which isn't to say forget.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to Lassie.

... that has to be silicone ...

* hee for tiggy = an old expression, now sadly fading from the Australian lexicon, rooted in the childhood game of "chasey" also known as "tiggy-touchwood", abbreviated to "tiggy". If you were tigged - or touched - you were deemed to be "hee" and became the chaser. Obviously, to say that you would go hee voluntarily means that you're so sure of your argument that the dire possibility would never arise.