Damien Galeone

As a kid I was fascinated by Brownies. In folklore, Brownies are Elvin folks who run around your house picking up after you and making shoes. The Slavic culture has their own variation called Domovoi, the English and Scots have Hobs and even old Harry Potter had his house elf, Dobby.

Despite Dobby’s rather overwhelming presence, folklore states that these little dudes don’t like to be seen, so they do all of their cleaning and craftwork after you’ve gone to sleep.

Even as an adult who drinks coffee, gets hosed on taxes, and gripes about those who leech off the welfare, I still harbor these childhood dreams of the mythical and folkloric. It’s fun to think that some ancient, magical entities might be governing your household after you’re asleep. And admit it, things are always just a little different when you wake than they were when you went to sleep, right?

If I have some Brownies living in my flat, they have a hell of a sense of humor. That or I’ve really pissed them off. Cause here’s what they do to me when I’m sleeping.

Bite me

Yes, they bite me. The number of days I wake up with a random bite on my ass, back or foot is rather disconcerting. And we’re not talking mosquito bites, here. We’re talking welts that grow off of my rump like a third cheek. We’re talking lumps that make it more difficult to get pants on. Adding to the mystery is that I don’t see spiders, bugs, or giant rodents running around my flat, so I have to guess that this is the work of those hungry little Brownies.

If I catch one, I am going to bite its head off and leave it on a pike on my bookshelf. Feeding season on the big man is over!

Magical Clothes

If you’ve watched Harry Potter, you know that Dobby has some magical attachment to clothing. So much so that if he is given any article of clothing, he can go free.

And maybe that explains what is happening to me in bed. I usually sleep in a pair of boxers, maybe a T-shirt and, if the next morning is a running morning, socks. I have learned that the fewer clothing born distractions the better on a running day.

When I go to bed, my clothing is usually on me. When I wake up, my clothing has a very different position and it’s never on.

I have found my boxers completely turned around, and the pee-slot yawning just enough so that with the help of the mirror I can spot a new bite on my rump. My socks turn around completely, the heel patch always making its appearance on the top of my foot. My T-shirt inevitably turns into a bra or halter-like garment, leading me to imagine a group of devious Brownies snapping photos of me as though I was a girl gone wild on spring break; and they were Snoop Dogg.

The less pleasant prepositional option is in.

When I was in the 10^th grade, I ran afoul of a gent named Joe Gazzone, Razzone, Fazzone, it was something –zone, who for an 11th grader had already developed a gorilla build, and far more body hair than one would imagine on someone who had already started balding. Joe gave me my first Atomic Wedgie, during which I saw my name stitched into my underwear label without removing them.

Every night, the Brownies give me an Atomic Wedgie.

When I catch one, I am going to pull his pants so far into his own ass that it is going to tattoo Levi into its uvula.

Moving Things

Some of the benefits of not having kids are that I have money, don’t handle poop, and can sleep later than 6 a.m. Mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahhahahahahaha. No really…one of the benefits is that – theoretically – I should not have those stubbing household accidents parents have on Legos, Chewbacca dolls, and laser guns (or my dad, anyway).

Not the case!

See, every morning I wake up, bask in the glory of a serene morning, stretch, pull my underpants out of my lower intestine, then walk into the kitchen to brew coffee. On the way the sole of my foot encounters forks, cups, and the occasional plug adaptor. My serene morning then becomes a folk song rendition of the loudest fucks anyone in Prague has heard since August 1968.

If I catch one of them, I am going to have those little buggers walk through a minefield of….well, mines.

My recently acquired chin up bar has made things more interesting, somehow lowering itself a few inches each night in order to create a morning jolt that negates the need for caffeine.

I know what you’re thinking and it’s not the cat…

The Cat’s Eye

…and the reason I know it’s not the cat, is because the cat is usually tucked inside of one of my body crevices. No matter how I go to sleep, the cat is stuffed by the Brownies into some locale otherwise reserved for other parts of my body.

If I catch one of them…hell, those little Brownies had just better hope I catch them before the cat catches them.

People of the Internet, as you surely and harshly judge me, please make me feel better. What happens in your house when you’re asleep?