Bernard the Mooning Gnome: A Tale of Buttocks, Birds, and Brenda's Biblical Blues

Ah, Bernard. My resident exhibitionist, the Michelangelo of mooning, the Salvador Dali of derriere displays. He graces – or disgraces, depending on your perspective – my front doorstep, a gift from my son with a mischievous glint in his eye and a love for all things anatomically humorous.

Bernard wasn't always this way. He used to be your run-of-the-mill gnome, perched proudly on a toadstool, fishing rod in hand (plastic, of course, because even gnomes have standards). But then, one particularly stormy night, a rogue gust of wind sent him tumbling headfirst into a patch of pansies. When I righted him, I swear I saw a glint of mischief in his beady eyes. And that's when the mooning began.

He's a cheeky chappy, fond of flashing his porcelain posterior to the world. Imagine a miniature Winston Churchill, minus the cigar and eloquence, replaced with a permanent moonwalk and a penchant for public indecency.

This morning, sat atop Bernard's rump, perched with an air of nonchalant cheer, was a bright blue bird, chirping merrily. Perhaps a strategically placed birdbath near Bernard wouldn't be such a bad idea.

I've tried everything to curb Bernard's exhibitionism. Strategic plant placement? Tuned right out. Gnome-sized trousers? Ripped them right off (apparently, gnome fashion is all about liberation these days). A stern talking-to (complete with a gnome-sized cuppa)? He just stared at me with those blank, black eyes, a smug glint in their depths.

Children giggle, tourists gasp, and Brenda from number 37 clutches her pearls tighter than a toddler with a fistful of goldfish crackers. Yes, Brenda. Our resident saint with a side-eye stronger than a supermarket security guard. Apparently, Bernard's moonlighting violates her "moral compass" and sends her muttering about "filth" and "divine intervention." I suspect her prayers for Bernard involve lightning strikes, not lottery wins.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no purveyor of public nudity (unless it involves Morris dancing, which is a whole other kettle of… kilts). But Brenda's dramatics are as entertaining as Bernard's mooning. I imagine her kneeling in church, eyes squeezed shut, pleading with the heavens, "Please, smite the gnome, but spare the hydrangeas!"

The irony, of course, is that Brenda's prayers could be better directed at the weeds sprouting between my bricks. Bernard's mooning might be attention-grabbing, but those weeds are an eyesore worthy of a biblical plague. Perhaps Brenda could pray for a gnome with green thumbs and a trowel? 

So, dear readers, I leave you with this: embrace the absurdity of life. Let Bernard moon, children giggle, and Brenda mutter her indignation. After all, a little laughter, even if fueled by a mooning gnome, is better than any sermon on the mount, wouldn't you agree?

P.S. Brenda, if you're reading this, next time you pray, consider throwing in a word for some weed-whacking abilities for Bernard. We could all use a divine intervention in the garden department.

Bernard, The Mooning Garden Gnome


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