meditations in gold
Night time at the Chateau de Healy.
I am sitting in the front room flicking through the channels on the sexevision.
By chance I alight on Southpark and sit back happily to disapprove of it for the next half hour.
It's one of the good episodes.
The one where the kids are made junior detectives by the local police department and then they get sent on real cases.
There's a bit where the Chief Of Police says to them something like: "You junior detectives and your unpredictable rogue cop ways. Your shoot first and ask questions later routine may be okay in that dog and pony show you call the fourth grade but it's not acceptable behaviour in this police department. Now there's a meths lab on Malavista. Get down there right away. I want it taken down by the book. Or the mayor will have my ass, blah blah blah, my ass, blah blah blah, the mayor, blah blah blah."
He actually says the blah blah blahs.
They didn't even bother scripting it properly.
Funniest thing I ever saw.
There is a cup of coffee on the armrest.
MC Hamster is asleep up my sleeve.
All is right with the world.
Presently the hamster's head appears where it shouldn't.
That is to say, it emerges through the fibres of my jumper.
Right at the elbow.
She squeezes through the hole she has made and posits herself on my belly.
Her shiny eyes shine shinily.
"Hammy," I cry, "you've put a hole in my best jumper."
The golden mouse shrugs.
"It needed a hole there," she explains. "There was no way to get in or out at the elbow."
My gentle poet's face shows signs of profound discombulation.
"It's not even my jumper," I fume. "It's Doctor Barn's. He'll kill me."
Hamble grins grinnily.
"These are the breaks," she muses. "You want to live forever?"
I fix her with my most reproving stare.
"Hammy," I intone. "Oh Hammy, thou little knowest what thou hast done."
(And somewhere the ghosts of Sir Isaac Newton and his dog Diamond are smiling.)
The Hammer begins to wash her face.
Suddenly I am struck by the strange dignity of creatures.
"What is it with you hamsters?" I wonder. "Why are you always on the go? It's as though you're searching. It's as though you're seeking some mystical hamdorado. It's non stop motion with you. What is this search? What has God told you to do? What quest has he programmed into you? You're always breaking out of your cage, drilling your way into the piano, drilling your way out of the piano, climbing on top of book cases, chewing your way into the couch, chewing your way out of the couch, falling off the curtains, making holes in jumpers, and all this after running about a hundred miles on your hamster wheel. Why can you never be content? Why can you never sit still? What drives you on? What is the dream that impels you? What is the secret of your quest?"
Hammy thought for a moment.
"I want to be a googlebot," she says simply.
And there our story ends.
I am sitting in the front room flicking through the channels on the sexevision.
By chance I alight on Southpark and sit back happily to disapprove of it for the next half hour.
It's one of the good episodes.
The one where the kids are made junior detectives by the local police department and then they get sent on real cases.
There's a bit where the Chief Of Police says to them something like: "You junior detectives and your unpredictable rogue cop ways. Your shoot first and ask questions later routine may be okay in that dog and pony show you call the fourth grade but it's not acceptable behaviour in this police department. Now there's a meths lab on Malavista. Get down there right away. I want it taken down by the book. Or the mayor will have my ass, blah blah blah, my ass, blah blah blah, the mayor, blah blah blah."
He actually says the blah blah blahs.
They didn't even bother scripting it properly.
Funniest thing I ever saw.
There is a cup of coffee on the armrest.
MC Hamster is asleep up my sleeve.
All is right with the world.
Presently the hamster's head appears where it shouldn't.
That is to say, it emerges through the fibres of my jumper.
Right at the elbow.
She squeezes through the hole she has made and posits herself on my belly.
Her shiny eyes shine shinily.
"Hammy," I cry, "you've put a hole in my best jumper."
The golden mouse shrugs.
"It needed a hole there," she explains. "There was no way to get in or out at the elbow."
My gentle poet's face shows signs of profound discombulation.
"It's not even my jumper," I fume. "It's Doctor Barn's. He'll kill me."
Hamble grins grinnily.
"These are the breaks," she muses. "You want to live forever?"
I fix her with my most reproving stare.
"Hammy," I intone. "Oh Hammy, thou little knowest what thou hast done."
(And somewhere the ghosts of Sir Isaac Newton and his dog Diamond are smiling.)
The Hammer begins to wash her face.
Suddenly I am struck by the strange dignity of creatures.
"What is it with you hamsters?" I wonder. "Why are you always on the go? It's as though you're searching. It's as though you're seeking some mystical hamdorado. It's non stop motion with you. What is this search? What has God told you to do? What quest has he programmed into you? You're always breaking out of your cage, drilling your way into the piano, drilling your way out of the piano, climbing on top of book cases, chewing your way into the couch, chewing your way out of the couch, falling off the curtains, making holes in jumpers, and all this after running about a hundred miles on your hamster wheel. Why can you never be content? Why can you never sit still? What drives you on? What is the dream that impels you? What is the secret of your quest?"
Hammy thought for a moment.
"I want to be a googlebot," she says simply.
And there our story ends.
posted by heelers | 3:08 AM
1 Comments:
I'm afraid she might get lost in the tubes over here in the States and not be able to chew her way out. Our internet here is a series of tubes, you know.
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