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.