HUGH LAURIE’S BALLS

smiley balls

by Joe Buonfiglio

There is no sense in sugarcoating this, so I’m just going to put it out there and let it speak for itself.  Last night, I dreamt that I was Hugh Laurie’s balls.

Let that sink in for a moment….

Yeah.  That’s how I felt about it, too.

There I was, dangling off the acclaimed and respected British actor as if a pair of anglophilic “truck nuts” with my face painted on each testicle.  They just happily conversed back and forth while Mr. Laurie went about the business of rehearsing for a new television show.

“Oh, isn’t he wonderful, dearie?” HL-ball me #1 said to HL-ball me #2 in an accent one would expect to hear come out of a Monty Python character in drag.

“Oh, I know,” I responded back to my other testicular self.  “I’ve enjoyed being suspended below his Willy since we were in Black Adder.   But oh my, weren’t we truly brilliant in that American thingy the Yanks put on.  What was it called?”

House.”

“Oh, yes.  We had to affect an American accent, didn’t we?  That was a brilliant bit of craft there, wasn’t it?”

“Oh my, yes.  And for a briny little sperm-sack, you’re quite the astute one, aren’t you?”

“Too kind.  You know, I always thought we’d all have been great as the Doctor in Doctor Who, don’t you?”

“Ooooooh, yes-yes-yes.  Absolutely!  Can you imagine scooting around through time and space in a mad dash to save—   Oh dear.  I’m getting a bit sweaty.  How about you?”

“Mmmmmm.  We are moving away from the body a bit, aren’t we?”

Seriously?  This is what my nocturnal brain offers up while you slumber away in a fantasy-cloud delusion of long walks on the beach with the cover art from a seductive Harlequin paperback?  Your snoozing grey matter shifts into REM overdrive and you find yourself waltzing with Colonel Sanders while in a freefall down an elevator shaft, but I must succumb to the humiliation of transforming into some thespian’s family jewels fan club chat room?  This somehow makes sense to the driving forces of the universe?

HUGH LAURIE’S BALLS?!

What type of person dreams they’re Hugh Laurie’s nuts, anyway?  Besides me, I can’t imagine anyone in the history of Humankind has ever had to wake up and tell their spouse, “You’re not going to believe this, but I just dreamt I was Hugh Laurie’s balls.”

Being John Malkovich?  Baby shit!  I was Hugh Laurie’s balls!

But, why Hugh Laurie’s balls?  Why didn’t I dream I was John Wayne’s nutsack or the testicles cascading off Albert Einstein?  Why not astronaut and American hero Neil Armstrong’s libidinous cotillions?

What does that say about me?

Hell, the fact that you’re still reading this; what does that say about you?

All I know is I have to find a trucker and bum some uppers and snow.  Because there is no way — NO FUCKIN’ WAY — I’m going to allow myself to fall asleep tonight.

 

© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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