04 January 2006

When sheep fly.

Lindy writes vis-à-vis my inflatable companion comment:
” At least it wasn't an inflatable sheep... we hope...

We gave a "buddy" one of those once...”

I had an inflatable, erm, doll, once. It was bought as a lark. We dressed as a Penn-State cheerleader and filled it with helium, trying to use it to mark the location of our tailgate party. Alas, the clothes, skimpy as they were, made it too heavy to float. So we disrobed her.

Shortly thereafter, campus security stopped by and confiscated it. Parents were complaining, they explained. Nonsense! They just wanted a date.

I'd like an inflatable sheep, Lindy. I'd send it aloft to mark the location of future tailgate parties, painted with the opposing team’s colours.

"Where are you?" people would ask from their mobiles.

"Under the sign of the shaggable sheep." I'd answer. And they'd know right where to go; I can pretty much quaranty that it'd be the only one. Not many tailgaters can rival me when it comes to class.

And there would be nothing parents could say about it, without opening up a huge can of worms.

Don’t think it would deter campus security, though; the pervs.


“I don't see any problem, as long as you don't get an ugly one.” Writes VaporizeBarney.

Funny he should mention that, as it reminds me of a local legend.

Towards the end of the 18th century, this region was settled by an iron smelter who set up three villages, centered about his furnaces. He named these after his daughters, Martha’s Furnace, Port Matilda (no water in Port Matilda; the fellow was a bit barmy) and Tyrone.

They had problems marrying Tyrone off; in fact she never did tie the knot, but eventually she found her way in life; becoming a popular professional wrestler and an early advocate for comfortable shoes for women.

Well, the iron master’s daughters were the only ladies in these wild parts, so the workers had to resort to bringing in sheep.

All except for one lad, with a pure heart, noble bearing and classic chiseled features that vowed to win over Tyrone. A bit dim, he was; somehow passing his genes down to the locals of this generation.

Well, our lad struggled on for a couple of years, before finally admitting defeat. So he gritted his teeth, went to the paddock behind the tavern and chose the prettiest sheep he could.

He bathed and brushed her, put a blue ribbon in ther wool, sprayed her with lilac water, and took her into the Tavern to meet up with his friends and their “dates”.

Legend has it that a shocked hush fell over the room when he entered and our lad lost it.

“You’re a bunch of hypocrites!” he shouted “You all have been shagging sheep for years!”

Finally, a stunned voice answered:

“Yeah, but you’re with the Sheriff’s gal!”

And that's the way I likes it.