Johnnie, the happy idiot

Johnnie was a happy idiot. Johnnie didn’t think about whether  he was an idiot. He didn’t think about being happy. He just was, and so he was.

People in streets heard Johnnie whistling as he went about his day. Oh, his smile irritated them so. His greetums-voice was a blister on a tongue to them.  And they said hello back, through gritted teeth.

He had arms, and hair, and legs, and all the regulation bits and bobs. This made him human, technically.

Johnnie had a job of work and didn’t dislike it. He didn’t really think about the job’s wider implications. He didn’t think about the concept of work. It just was, and so it was.

His bosses heard Johnnie singing tunes as he went about his day. Oh, the melody irritated them so. His ladeladela-song was a rusty school compass to their hears. But they caught themselves singing too, despite their efforts.

He had trousers, and a tie, and shirts, and all the reasonable clothes and clutter. Thus he was a worker, technically.

Johnnie watched rugby and football sometimes. Johnnie’s way of watching rugby was to enjoy the skill. He didn’t really worry about who won. Winning just was, and so losing was.

In school, pupils used to ask him who his favourite team was. He didn’t have one, which irritated them so. His bigheart-affection for all to do their best was a shinstrike to them. Later, they watched sport on TV without supporting anyone, sometimes.

He could breathe, and eat, and shit, and all the respectable things to do. This made him alive, technically.

Johnnie had a phone and a computer. He synched them up together, so that they could talk to each other. He rarely called anybody, if ever. Technology was, and so it was.

Once, the phone rang and he answered it. It was somebody that didn’t know him, so he apologised, which irritated the person so. His sallyally-lack of flirtation was a poker to the person’s heart. But the next day the person met someone they could love, maybe.

He had a stone, and a knife, and a rope, and some other rumbly-tumbly things in his shed. Thus, he was a danger, technically.

Johnnie walked and caught a bus. He sat in the middle, in case anyone wanted to use the front seats. He buzzed and smiled to himself. A journey was, and so it was.

Ten minutes into the journey Johnnie stood up. It was his stop, so he pressed the bell, which made a rather irritating clang. His beedly-bright shopping trolley smacked the side of the bus as he walked out. Later, the bus driver narrowly avoided a crash when he went out to check the damage.

He had a lighter, some rags, and a petrol-milk bottle, and a few other things in his tartan trolley. This made him an arsonist, technically.

Johnnie walked again to an address. He pulled out the petrol, and inserted the rag in the top. He lit the rag with his lighter. It caught with a pleasing whoosh. The heat was, and so it was.

He pushed the burning device through the letterbox. A moment later, he heard a bang and the early lick of flames, which irritated the people in the address. His spiffy-dippy dance down the street drew few glances. The people knew it was Johnnie, so took little notice.

He had a pen, some paper, and some names written on it, which he looked at as he crossed through a certain name. This was a hitlist, technically.

Johnnie was a happy idiot. Johnnie didn’t think about whether  he was an idiot. He didn’t think about being happy. He just was, and so he was.

People in streets heard Johnnie whistling as he went about his day. Oh, his smile irritated them so. His greetums-voice was a blister on a tongue to them.  But these days fewer were there to say hello back, through gritted teeth.

He had a shed full of arms, and hair, and legs, and all the regulation bits and bobs. What this made him, technically, he didn’t think about.

Johnnie was just happy, and so he was.