Magoo has learned his first sign.
You say ”˜potato.’ He says ”˜blagooblablah.’
You wave ”˜hi’, he clicks his heels and salutes ”˜heil.’
Potato, blagooglablah, hi, heil
Let’s call the whole thing off.
Catchy, isn’t it?
To give him the benefit of the Nazi doubt, his stiff outstretched arm of greeting could pass for some sort of Vulcan Spockish thing if he could learn to get the fingers right. He also doesn’t have a mustache, a love of marching, the ability to sprechen sie anything, or have totally crazy hair.
He has started to grow the equivalent of old man eyebrows all over his head. You know the inch-long curly hairs that look like you could just brush them away but they’re actually growing out of his head, like a Chia Pet where a few of the holes have been doused with fertilizer?
He also wears gingerbread pajamas in the middle of March and pink bibs. What can I say? This kid’s no slave to fashion.