Hello world! Welcome to Janey Macken Street. I’m Howie B; The Flying Superhero Clothes Horse himself! Flying? Well, I’ve strapped a coat-hanger on to my back. Haven’t I? Wings. So there. I’ll be your blogger for today’s post. I’m a successful horsetrepreneur and run my own Fiver Shop on the Californian Hills – just up the road from Janey Macken Street actually – with my business partner and housemate, Pedro Polar. Everything a Fiver! Drop in anytime, you’ll be always welcome.
Ahem. Anyway. There’s been some strange red-trousered happenings on the street today. So without further ado: my report direct from the coalface.
Lenny – The Dog That Can Lick Your Mind
The Priest With Red Trousers
The Priest with red trousers stood firm with his hands on his hips, and blocked Jimbo’s only way out of the laneway. He was trapped.
“He’s licked his last mind out Jimbo,” said the priest.
“If you’ve done anything to hurt him -”
The priest charged at him shouting bum really loudly. Darkness had come down like a ton of bricks, but because of the bright almost neon red trousers, Jimbo kept him in sight.
He picked up a stone and threw it, knocking the priest’s tricolour flag-hat off his head, which sent him scurrying. The darkness hugged Jimbo even closer, in anticipation of the consequences, it seemed.
The concrete wall behind him stood over six foot. Jimbo ran at it but it was no use. Back on the ground he kicked some wild Jenny Joes sprouting from its crevices. In a seed-shower of white fluff he shouted –
“Lenny! Lick his mind!”
“Lenny’s not here Jimbo. You’re mine now. Have a sandwich?” said the priest proffering something in his hand.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t be stupid Jimbo. In IMF Ireland, everybody’s hungry.”
Jimbo smelled the egg so intensely that he nearly fainted. There was salad too, and some tomato slices. His stomach started to scream. He doubled over.
“Ok! Just one bite.”
“Not so fast. Salute my tricolour flag-hat first. Then you can eat. Have some respect.”
He remembered his mother last week. A priest in red trousers lured her with a blueberry muffin, but forced her to salute his tri-colour flag-hat for over six hours in the pouring black rain first. She died. Without touching his muffin.
“Don’t look in the eyes!” the newspapers howled. As soon as you looked, you felt the overwhelming desire to be respected by the rich, so you couldn’t move, they said. And even if you did escape with a bite or two, you refused henceforth to rob food from the rich like most people in Ireland had to do, saying –
“I can’t let the red-trousered ones down. I’m better than the scumbags!”
Therefore, you died anyway.
Jimbo’s mouth dripped, he wanted the sandwich. His twitching hand started a salute when Lenny’s long tongue came flying around the corner and rammed itself up Jimbo’s left nostril. Quickly it reached his mind and licked it out into the real world; a roast chicken and a strawberry yogurt for dessert. Jimbo tucked in.
“Just because your mind-licking dog escaped, doesn’t mean I won’t kick both your teeth in you know!”
But Lenny used his Jack Russell tongue again, and this time licked the priest’s mind out, bringing two high court judges in green skirts down his nostrils. They proclaimed their most esteemed love and respect for the priest and kissed him to the ground which sent his tri-colour flag hat flying.
“I don’t think that God wears red trousers, Lenny. Everyone’s wrong. Quick! Run!” said Jimbo as they sprinted home with full stomachs, sending rainbows into the ever darkening recessionary Irish skies.