Seeing as nobody else is doing anything about bringing the glorious minute-by-minute news of me to you, my fashion-starved friends, I’ve once again had to take control of the the entire internet to update you all. The world is in imminent danger of economic ruin and unimaginable collapse, it’s true, so why not check out my big white boots?
Aren’t they cool? And has anyone ever shown a pair of dungarees how they should be worn more successfully than I do? That’s right, they have not.
I admire you for your intelligent and insightful analysis, all of you. I totally dominate the camera. And the catwalk. Not so much catwalk as crawl perhaps, but I wouldn’t be the first supermodel not to be able to hold themselves upright on a given day, would I? Heh heh. Oh listen to me! Who am I to fire cheap shots at a much maligned segment of society? Forgiveness!
And just in case you think I can’t act up with the best Naomi Campbells and Kate Mosses, check me out here after I fell off the bar stool at some after-show party in Kensington last week. (I’m posting it here because that way I have some degree of control over those infernal paparazzi, and because I can trust you good people not to tell everyone else.)
Ha ha ha hic! Shares in me are on the floor!
Ha! Fooled you. I hadn’t been drinking at all! I was just stress testing the furniture round these parts. Something tells me it’s going to get a lot of testing. And stress. What do you think of my mechanic chic?
- Ooh… be two weeks before we get a replacement for this gasket, love.
Ok, enough of the small talk. I have actually been working too, you know. Apart from now pretty much owning the downstairs and forcing the Big Ones™ to actually sweep/clean the floors every so often, I have also started talking. Whole sentences. (Oh, have to tell you this one. Stubbleyman, in bed a couple of days back, was trying to squeeze those last 15 mins out of the cosy duvet, or comforter, for you up-and-at-em Yanks among my clearly superior and discerning fans. Normally I’d just be awake, wondering if they’d ever feed me again and yakking my stream of consciousness babble, right? But just to throw it out there, I decided to say I wanted to be fed and forthwith if you please, my good man. I think ‘More nam nams‘ was how it came out, or possibly even ‘Mah nam nam‘, but you catch the drift. Man! He was out of the bed like a ricocheting knife off Herself’s week-old lasagne. I think he dislocated his gossip bone in the race down the stairs to tell Herself about the genius they’re slowly realising that they got lucky with. Wish you coulda seen it. Oh yes, I have finally discovered the secret of the guilt trip, and by golly I’ll be exploiting it.)
I’ve also seen fit to let them know that I am fully aware of where their noses are. Well if they’re silly enough to ask, it would be rude of me not to answer by honking good and hard on said proboscis, no? I’m just about beginning to do the hug thing too, but I’m not sure they’re ready for it yet. Whaddya say, Elbog?
They’re also starting to annoy me with flash cards and repeating words over and over again. What a pain. If I say ‘Ball’ back to them do you think it’ll make them go away? Or will they just harrass me more? What should I do, gentle readers?