I’m Sorry, What?
I’m sorry, what was that you said? I couldn’t quite hear you. I’ve got a leprechaun in my ear. A leprechaun. Yeah, I don’t know. He’s in there though, and he loves to talk. Something about stealing his pot of gold most of the time. Sometimes, he talks about shaving his little beard but I think that’s just an idle threat. What kind of leprechaun would he be if he didn’t have a little orange beard?
We’ve tried everything but he’s a feisty little dickens. The lasers only seem to make him angry, and he’s learned how to surf, so ear washes are out. Once we tried to shrink down an army soldier to go in there and flush him out, but the soldier couldn’t find him and when he turned his back, the leprechaun killed and ate him. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. This is the way I live.
At night, he’s usually pretty quiet. That’s why it’s strange that he’s talking now. He sounds just like you’d think he sounds. He’s got an Irish brogue and says “me” instead of “my.” Yeah, it was kinds of cute for the first like two weeks. Now, I can’t stop singing “Toora Loora Lee.”
Although, last week, I was sleeping and I guess the little guy had a bad dream because at about three in the morning, he woke up screaming for his Irish mama. If it didn’t damn near puncture my eardrums, I probably would have laughed my ass off. He’s screaming for his mother and I’m screaming because I’m in searing pain. Finally, we both screamed ourselves out and fell back to sleep. I think we both had a nice chuckle over that the next morning.
I gave him a little bottle of whiskey for Christmas and that seemed to make him pretty happy. No, not directly to him; my fingers are really too big to give anything directly to him. I left it on the little shelf right near the entrance to the inner ear there. You know, like how you would leave a gift for your postman in the mailbox. Same idea.
So, anyway. What was that you were saying?