The Horrible Grey Rhino King Is Hell's Messenger

This is shaping up to be one of those days that I have.

The Goonybird came into the kitchen this a.m. while I was wandering around the Web and began to pace back and forth, taking very deliberate, measured steps. He paused, then he resumed walking, only this time taking tiny little shuffling steps like a Parkinsons' patient. Suddenly he stopped, looked over at me, shook his head sadly, and sighed a long, dramatic sigh. Then he walked out.
Then he ran back in chasing a fly. "Wheddo go! Go! Go, bee! Tove no! Fooo! (blowing vigorously, flapping) Foo! Oo! Go car!"
Translation: "Where did you go? Aha, there you are; go! Go, bee! Oh, so you think you can baffle me with your foul imitation of a stove? I blow at you! I blow at you a second time! Oo, I heard a car go past."

I followed him and the fly into the front room, where he completely lost interest in it, walked over to the windowsill where my plants are, scooped up a handfull of potting soil and swallowed it.
"Hey! No no!" I said.
"No no!" he agreed, nodding, and walked away.

Now he is talking to the coffee table. I have no idea about what...I doubt the coffee table knows either. But it seems serious.

Usually it's the stove that gets this treatment. He and the stove seem to have a lot of ups and downs in their relationship. Sometimes he'll walk past and give it a friendly little kiss...and then other times that stove has just messed up like a big dog and gets read the riot act. "NO!" He'll yell, standing with his face thrust out belligerently at the oven door. 'Tove! You tove! Go car! go shoe car!"
Translation: "NO! You stove! You utter and complete stove! Just get in the car and go! Well; what I mean is, get your shoes first, then get in the car and go!"

And speaking of things that make you wished you'd remembered to wear your tinfoil hat....

When I was younger and everything was made of chipboard , I used to have birthdays. Now for a number of years there, starting in 73 and all the way up to about 81, every goddamn birthday someone, or two, or more, would give me a David Bowie record. Not too unusual a gift given the times, right? but odd in that I wasn't a David Bowie fan. At all. Nothing against the man, I just wasn't a Ziggy Stardust kinda person. I was not glam. I was daaaaaaaaaaaaaaark. You know...one of those world weary types who liked wearing black and leather and black leather and drinking beer and sitting around on the floor smoking dope. The music you would hear in my place (from about a block away) was either elderly black men singing about killing their wives, or Englishmen who sounded like elderly black men singing killing their wives.
Yeah, I was a riot.

And yet here I was with this all this fucking Bowie. I'd only opened one album over the years. The rest was pristine linoleum still in the cellophane. I think I ended up giving it all away to a club.

The last time this happened, it was husband#1 and my best friend who both gave me the Bowie bombshell. I just sat there looking from one to the other and thinking 'do these people know me?'
'Well, thank you....but, why on earth did you get me these?' I finally asked.
They looked at each other in exasperation. Apparently the answer to this question was being pulled across the sky behind Snoopy on his Sopwith Camel.
'Because you're WEIRD', husband #1 explained.
'You're WEIRD' agreed best friend.
"And Bowie's weird, too" added husband #1 helpfully.
"And weird people like weird things,' said best friend.
"Anyway, all you have to do is look at your record collection to tell who your favorite singer is" finished husband #1.

Mystery solved.