Gnome More Mr. Nice Guy

Mr. Wibbles hangs out with some of my Stars Wars collectibles, no doubt planning his next wicked prank.

But I am jumping too far ahead.

It all began when I purchased the garden gnome from a mysterious home & garden kiosk at the Horticulture And Soy Expo. A wrinkled old merchant had offered the little ceramic guy to me for no cost, a price I was comfortable with. His only request, a warning perhaps, was to tell me never to feed it any chocolate.

I laughed at the absurdity, assuming the merchant was joking, although I didn't get the punchline. But I was told it was polite to laugh at old people's jokes, whether they are funny or not.

I accepted the garden gnome, a jolly little 6" figurine with apple cheeks and a mischievous smile. I turned back to ask the merchant a soy-related question, but he was already gone! There was only a smoky haze where the kiosk had been, and the air smelled like almonds, a peculiar coincidence, since I had just purchased a bag of roasted almonds from the food court only minutes before.

I took my garden gnome home, and I named him Keith. It was at that same time that I remembered that my two gerbils were already named Keith, a peculiar coincidence, so I renamed him Mr. Wibbles, a suitably gnomish name I thought. I kept Mr. Wibbles on top of my computer monitor, along with my KISS action figures, my Austin Powers Pez dispenser, and my Dogbert plush toy.

By accident one day, I left behind a chocolate M&M at my workstation, against the advice of the joke-telling merchant. Mr. Wibbles must have snatched it up, for to my surprise, the next day he no longer had that ceramic-glaze sheen, nor any sheen at all. There were only little smudges of chocolate showing around his now-moving mouth. My garden gnome was alive!

It was then that the practical jokes began. My car keys would disappear out of my hole-ridden pockets, only to show up underneath the sofa cushions. The water faucet would begin to drip in the middle of the night, when I was sure I had shut it almost completely off. And the loose spring-hinged door to Keith's cage would keep opening as if by itself. And all the while Mr. Wibbles giggled and laughed, for he spent most of his time watching old Seinfeld reruns.

But soon the practical jokes became pranks, and then the pranks turned into mischief. And after the mischief, it just wasn't funny anymore. Mr. Wibbles rearranged the socks in my sock drawer, he erased my promising screenplay from the computer, and then he filled my shampoo bottle with deadly sulfuric acid. Enough was enough! No one messes with my socks!

I confronted Mr. Wibbles, but I was unsure how he would respond. I was afraid of his gaze. There was no longer that twinkle in his eye, for he had had it removed. I told him, hesitantly but firmly, that I didn't appreciate his impish behaviour and that if you were going to put sulfuric acid in a shampoo bottle, you should make sure that bottle isn't made of plastic.

Abashed and ashamed, Mr. Wibbles jumped up on my window sill and bid me farewell, saying that he could not live with a human with no sense of humour. I turned to him one last time to say goodbye, but he was already gone! At that same moment I heard an eagle's cry not far off in the distance, and saw coincidentally, what appeared to be a small gnomish figure clutched and struggling in its sharp eaglish talons.