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Paisley time

Enslaved on June 17, 2007.

Contrary to Harry Whyte’s expectations, and contrary to all logic known to man- and gorillakind, I made it home safely with all 4,522 paisley asshats perched atop my pointy little head. Nothing eventful happened. Nothing at all. Not even gnomes popping out of the wainscoting and hurling merry epithets in my direction. Not even canned cats coming to life and mocking me about being in my refrigerator and “eatin’ my foodz.” Nothing. Nada. No poopie. Well, maybe a little poopie, but nothing else…

So, on Monday, I boldly stepped outdoors wearing one, single, unboxed paisley asshat. At first, I thought no one would even notice—there wasn’t so much as a single turned head or shout of “Death to the paisley-wearing pervert!” to be heard. I was becoming nervous and mildly aggravated. I adjusted my asshat and began my journey with one single step.

That proved to be highly useful, so I took a second step, and then a third. I sauntered on soggily down Bouillabaisse Boulevard, the goatburping park on Shoehorner Street being my final destination. I had decided I’d proudly display my paisley asshat for all the world to see at the park, most likely while stripping naked and break dancing in the Gnome War Memorial Water Fountain.

This all proved easier done than said.

Turning onto Frummwich Drive off of Bouillabaisse Boulevard, I went still unmolested and unnoticed, paisley asshat or no. Trotting down the street, beeping occasionally, murping and burbling to myself about Britney Spears singing “I’m a Slave For You” while barefoot, I flailed my arms occasionally, pointed to the uniquely patterned hat resting upon my cranium, and at one point, even stopped someone to remind them what Harry Whyte often tells his customers to kiss. Other than shock and indignation at my decidedly crude language, there was no untoward reaction toward my enhatted self at all.

Nary a word about the paisley asshat was to be heard.

At two o’crock, I arrived at the goatburping park and began my customary chant:

I know I may come off quiet—I may come off shy—

But I feel like talking—feel like dancing when I see this guy…!

Removing all garb in which I was enswaddled, except my paisley asshat and a strip of dyed-purple bacon wound around myself in a strategic location, I continued:

What’s practical is logical—What the hell—who cares?

All I know is I’m so happy when you’re dancing there…!

I started flapping my arms up and down and spinning about madly, trying to get someone—anyone—to notice my heretical paisley asshat! But no one cared! Not a one! Old Harry Whyte had lied to me about the power of the paisley asshats! Yet I went forward with my devious plan, a bit desperately now:

I’m a slave for you—quack, quack!—I cannot hold it—I cannot control it—quack, quack!

I’m a slave for you—quack, quack!—I won’t deny it—I’m not trying to hide it—quack, quuaacckk!!

I attracted the attention of a small school of mallards, and a single Canadian goose who seemed to recognize me, but nothing else. Nothing at all! For the love of God and all that is holy (such as Enoch and the seven dwarves), what had I bought all these paisley asshats for!? I began to panic at the thought of boxes of asshats rotting in my closet for all eternity. Perhaps—perhaps I could feed them to the gorillas! But wait, I had expelled the gorillas over their inappropriate use of Ravna. I had to think. Think, think, think. Suddenly, it came to me: I resolved then and there to eat a peanut butter sandwich filled with cornpones.

And still nothing amiss had happened with the slowly madding crowd. Not even anything remiss had happened yet.

Realizing the crowd couldn’t read my thoughts, I re-resolved to eat a cornpone-impregnated peanut butter sandwich that night—out loud. One woman snickered. A man goonflayvined at me. A little girl giggled and shuffled in her sandals. An old man metamorphosed into a goat and belched loudly. I suddenly had an epiphany as to why the park was named as it was. But still not a person noticed the heathenous asshat enveloping my noggin.

Returning to the task at hand—attempting to enrage a crowd of filthy peasants to murder me with pitchforks over my effronterous asshat—I began gabbling and squawking about the impending invasion of asshat-wearing Westphalian Schmongeling Gnomes that a little doodie had told me about when I fished him out of the public water closets on Twitterby Street. People gawked. People balked. People even borked. A few porked each other in the shade. But no one flew into a mobbish rage over my hat shaped like an ass and patterned in elegant paisley.

“People! People, but—but, but, but… it’s a paisley asshat! Paisley! I shouted under the abortifacient skies as the clouds circled dolefully above my head; a waaambulance pulled up alongside the fountain. “Asshats! Gnomes! Gnomes! Gnomes!

…All you people look at me like I’m a little girl!

Well did you ever think it be okay for me to step into this world!

After another six tortured verses, it became plainly obvious to even me that nothing was going to happen beyond the occasional goat wandering by and belching softly. So, six hours later, I picked up my tattered clothing, stuffed everything into my triangular briefcase (I always have it on me!), and went home. Pwee, pwee…

[Feetnote: Dejectedly, I returned all 4,522 hats to Harry Whyte on Tuesday morning. He wasn’t smiling this time.]