I met a Furby today.  Or is it Furbee?  I can’t be sure, never having had the pleasure of meeting one face to face before today.  Even as I write, I’ve had to Google ‘Furby’ to see if that was in fact what I’d encountered.  The internet, it must be noted, was no help as to the proper spelling.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, a Furby (Firbie?) is a fluffy blob about the size of a small cantaloupe, with tiny plastic feet to stand on, way-too-big eyes over a way-too-small bird-like mouth and two enormous Spock-ears sticking up at 10 and 2.  Oh, and the little bugger talks.

I’m not entirely comfortable with talking toys.  When my son was smaller he enjoyed the talking Buzz Lightyear action figure (when I was a kid we called them dolls), but thankfully he forgot about it altogether after I hid it from him.

So I was lifting some carpeting in a little girl’s room and had to remove a low shelf in order to get into the corner.  In doing so, I must have activated the Furby’s (Furbeeze?) speaking function because unexpectedly I found myself in conversation with the little fuzzball.

‘Me hungry,’ it said in falsetto.

‘Yah, me too,’ I answered, ignoring its poor grammar.  ‘But I’m almost done here.  I’ll eat when I get home.’  As if it cared.

‘Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

‘Yay,’ it said apropos of nothing.  And then, ‘Yoo-hoo.’

I ignored it hoping it would get the hint and let me work in peace.  The last thing I need is someone nattering at me when I have tools in my hands.  Then it broke the awkward silence.

‘Uh huh … mmm hmmm,’ like the silly thing was Oprah listening intently to my story about how thieves stole my kidney before surprising me with a new one.

‘What, mmm hmmm?  I didn’t say anything.  If you’re going to say mmm hmmm …’

‘RUDE PHOTO!’

At least that’s what I think it said.  I didn’t like being interrupted by an audacious, talking, furry cantaloupe and, even in the most civil conversations, I certainly don’t appreciate loud eruptions of non-sequiturs.

‘What did you … ?’

‘Car hat day.’  Now it’s resorted to gibberish.

‘Look I’m sure you’re a really nice … thing, but I’ve got work to do so if you wouldn’t mind keeping your very interesting thoughts to yourself, I need to finish up here.

‘Aaah,’ it said almost conciliatorily. ‘Me sleepy.’

At last.

Then my downy friend began to snore – a sound composed of snorts, hums, wheezes, whines and whispers – followed by a steady refrain of ‘Me me me me me me.’  Or perhaps it was getting ready to sing and warming up with ‘Mi mi mi mi mi mi.’

If it had been my son’s toy, I’d have whacked it with my hammer and hurled it out the window to infinity and beyond.

 

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