Prog Rock: Well, the dog has had a nice morning. First it slept on the chair, with its belly up and its legs in the air, for an hour. It looked quite obscene, like a gay porn centerfold. Then it bounced on your bed.
E: But it's not allowed on our bed!
Prog Rock: Yes, but it was really enjoying itself. I think it had something to do with the kinetic properties of the mattress. It kept going round and round in small bouncy circles. Then it came back downstairs and went back to sleep.
Prog Rock: But if Half a Cock only has half of everything, surely he also only has half an arsehole? I detect a fatal flaw.
Then he showed me a picture of a giant marrow in the Suddeutschezeitung, which I can't even spell properly. And told me about this, and this. HOW could I have missed this utterly surreal story? Is the Vatican is trying to establish an alternative economy based on holy relics in the wake of global financial apocalypse? Anything is possible. It is hard to keep up with all the demented activities of this pope, isn't it? Has he invaded Switzerland yet? I am seriously pushing BMF to apply for the job; he's currently looking and would be much better at it. The wardrobe is excellent and he already has the Prada Sport shoes.
Then he told me that Eric Gill shagged his dogs. We both looked at Oscar speculatively and hoped Eric Gill's dogs were larger. Do not think he has potential for a career as a dog whore.
Prog Rock's camera is also full of the weirdest pictures imaginable. Like, my shoe cupboard.
You can't even see most of the good shoes! Look at all those square toes. I mean, I know McQueen was doing it last season, but those ones are carrément last time around squared off toes. And bottom left? New Look. Brrr.
Or a Pokémon wearing an Amy Winehouse badge. Out of focus.
Or a giddyingly cluttered view down the staircase to the spawn floor.
I woke up this morning (too early, to the usual accompaniment of "OSCAR! Shackass! Putain de chien!) no longer feeling funny. As I typed this, Prog Rock made a plastic grasshopper jump up to the ceiling for his own amusement and now he's watching Fingers and the dog chase each other round in circles in the back yard, and he looks so happy. They all do. It's lovely. He has counted up all Lashes' pokémons (315). He has made me 569 cups of tea in the last two days. He has killed lots of moths. He brought me self-raising flour. He is watching Fanny and Alexander with chinese subtitles because he doesn't know how to change them. I love him and I really really want him to be happy. The end.
E (gravely): Fingers, you know we really love you and we love doing nice things with you. But when you have a grosse colère like this morning in the black light mini golf, we really don't like it.
F: I don't have grosses coléres at school.
E: Well, I am very glad to hear that. You would get into terrible trouble if you did. Straight to the Directeur's office!
F: I don't have grosses colères because Madame Marie-Pierre is much nicer than you.
This one needs teeth
This one is also on probation after chewing Marc Jacobs peep toes. Bastard.
Banished to garden. Soon to be dressed up as a dinosaur for my dare. Which will teach him. Otherwise, I'm sending him out on the streets to sell his silky ass.