Wednesday, 21 October 2009

On Getting Your Poles Confused, Gloves, Michael Jackson and Quick -vs- Slow Death

So I've been away for a while. I needed a change of scenery. Summer does that to a Boofhead.

I travelled. How does a Boofhead travel? On a budget. I wrapped all my worldly goods - my signed fan photo of Lassie in her lingerie, a brisket bone, and €2 for bus money - in a spotted handkerchief, tied it to a pole, and set off.

The Pole promptly returned to Warsaw, leaving me with nothing more than my boofy hairy overcoat for my journey of discovery. Such is the way with Boofheads.

Anyways, the world was my ostrica and I knew it.

So where first? I'd've tossed a coin except it was in Warsaw.

So I picked up a copy of Boofhead Weekly. Words of no more than one syllable and a crossword already filled in to save you the trouble. I subscribe. I read that Michael Jackson was making a comeback to the tune - so to speak - of 248,487 concerts in London. How did I know about Michael Jackson?

He wore a glove:

A man after this Boofhead's heart. It's a little-known boofy fact that I'm into gloves too:

Except I wear two. And mine ride up my boofy legs.

My boofy mind was instantly made up. A get-together with Jacko to shoot the boofy breeze, compare gloves, and even the delights of snuggling up with pre-pubescents. Heck, I remember snuggling up to pre-pubescents:

That's one of my boofy little sisters on the left. That's my boofy little botty on the right, sticking out from under Mum while I guzzle a warm milk before bed, with one of my boofy little brothers - who never had an original thought in his boofy brain in all the seven weeks I knew him - copying me. We used to snuggle up together. Those were the boofy days.

So Los Angeles was the go.

I travelled Boofhead Class. Which is to say, I dog-paddled.

It wasn't hard to find Jacko. I asked at the local glove shop. They didn't have anything in my boofy size.

Jacko was at home. He asked how old I was. I told him I was nine. His eyes lit up. I told him that, in Boofhead years, nine equates with about fifty-five human years.

His disappointment moved me.

I asked him how his rehearsals for his comeback concerts were going. He said he was tired. He only wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. He craved sleep. All he wanted to do was sleep.

I told him to watch The English Patient.

He said he thought a needle might be quicker.

It was. The English Patient would just have bored him to death.


Judith in Umbria said...

Sorry, I don't get how your bundle ended up in Krakow, but I am very sorry that it did. Adventure is a good thing and often helps us through life's trials, although some would say you ARE ONE OF LIFE'S TRIALS.

Not me, mind.

Dermott said...

Guilty as charged.

I tied my bundle to a pole. I didn't realise it was a pole with a capital P.

Anonymous said...

good to have you back blogging again! The new boofy kennel must be pretty warm and cosy for you to be sitting in front of the computer typing away - it can't be easy with those big paws!


Judith in Umbria said...


You only got away with that because I would never look for that brand of (cannot call it humor!) from an Australian dog.

Dermott said...

Anonymous - as kennels go, I've had better. The colour scheme resembles something I'd pass - in the bodily-function sense - after eating a yellow chicken curry.

Judith - I prefer to think of it as an oasis of hilarity in the arid desert that is the blogosphere. Present company accepted, obviously.

Dermott said...

Oops. Sorry, Anonymous, I didn't realise you'd signed your post. A signed anonymous post?

Anyways, are you by any chance at all Chris Evert looking for another quickie Superstar Marriage and divorce? I do dribble very well.

Mmmm. That could be soccer rather than tennis.