I can’t stop documenting convos. Oh well, to each his own vice.
I walked into the kitchen this morning, announcing my presence with a hearty “SHABBA DOOO!”
Not a second or two had passed before I heard a buoyant “SHABBA DOO!” in response from the study (step off, my parents have a study. 8 out of 10 Colonel Mustards prefer it to the conservatory).
“Hey!” I said. It’s rare to find a friend so early in the day.
Not only was it a friend; it was my dad!
“Yes?” He inquires, a little too readily, still faceless, working in the study.
“SHABBA DOO?” I question.
“Yes, Shabba Doo.” He says definitively. “What does it mean?”
“SHABBA DOO?” I inquire, “Well, I can’t say exactly.”
“Well, it sounds good. SHABBA DOO!” He states decidedly, trying it out once again with his own tongue.
“Yes it does, doesn’t it? SHABBA DOOOO!!!!!!!”
I live with my parents because not only do they harbor me, they also harbor the furry monsters who live in my brain.
the shabba doo face
photo courtesy of Flickr and Doonvas