July 25, 2005

Shaken, Not Turd

Sigh. Every once in a while, I get all puffed up like a bonobo and get it in my gummed-up noggin that Rovey is mine and mine only, and that I alone know every deliciously dimpled inch of his outside, and at least the first couple of inches of parts of his insides.

Not so, it seems, for from every corner of the interweb, and during those moments when my Tlubblenorpkins doesn't have the tv clicking back and forth between QVC and reruns of Blossom, strangers are yelping out that they'd like to see my Rovey behind bars. How did they all know that he thinks so much and so hard about cocktails that sometimes I find him jiggling an imaginary shaker under the afghan at night? I swear, his dreams are so darned vivid that sometimes there's even a wet spot left over after! And like clockwork, my bouncy Blubbleglup squeezes me up a fresh, hot lemonade every gol-danged day after he finishes his afternoon Squirtini.

Sometimes he even has me trundle out a tray of sample cups to the news people camped out under the carport, but they always say no. "Yer in for a treat!" I tell them, but rarely a taker (except for that thirsty Mr. Novak who comes by every day like clockwork). I guess that newsies can't be fed stuff by political folks 'cause then it'll seem too chumsy, but my Rovey would never stand for a leak like that!

Ooops - must flutter! I just heard my Wudgyblop's knees pop, so he must have been squatting down in the kitchen to see if his special nut-chunked brownie logs were steaming warm and ready for the press folks to swallow. He's even so thoughtful that he handed me some cellophane to keep Ms. Miller's portion nice 'n fresh for her daily care package while she's on her vacation! What a generous Globblegorp!


p.s. More of your peppy poems posted soon!

Posted by Virginia at July 25, 2005 03:08 AM | TrackBack