My Life in Pants: Binglefont Foo and the Comb That Had Roamed

Binglefont Foo and the Comb That Had Roamed

A fuzzy tale of friendship, assumption, and finding what matters most

Binglefont Foo, a fuzzy Whazoo, lived right by a tree,
Deep in a magical forest, happily.
He lived in a house—though some called it a stump—
With a round little door and a soft mossy hump.
A cozy brown home near the base of the tree,
Where he’d wave every morning to his neighbor, the Bee.

He kept his own comb in a neat little dome—
Not honey-filled like the Bee’s, but a hair-comb for home.
The Bee had his hive and his honey, all sweet,
But Binglefont’s fuzz needed tidying neat.
So he placed his comb proudly where fuzz could be tamed,
In the house that he loved, and that’s where it remained.

But one summer day, Binglefont Foo,
Returned to his home—a stump with a view—
To find the small door was hanging ajar…
And his comb, so beloved… had wandered afar!

“Bee!” he cried, gazing high in the tree.
“My comb! It's not home! It is gone—do you see?”

“Gone?” said the Bee. “Well that’s quite odd.
Combs don’t go walking… they’ve no legs to abscond!”

“Yes,” said Binglefont. “It should be inside.
But it’s clearly not—there’s no place to hide!”

So the Whazoo and Bee, both earnest and keen,
Set off to recover what once had been seen.
They searched high and low, behind rocks and grass,
They checked near the stump and each critter that passed.
They searched all around, but the comb was just… gone.
It was clearly a mystery they had stumbled upon.

“Bee,” asked Binglefont, scratching his head,
“You sit in that tree. Were any words said?
Any footsteps, whispers, buzzing, or croon—
Did you hear someone pass in the heat of the noon?”

“I do now recall,” said the Bee with a hum,
“A wandering Cuckoo did happen to come.
It asked about combs and about honey.
It seemed quite polite… and a little bit funny.”

“A wandering Cuckoo? Oh, that’s quite rare.
Usually all we get near our tree is a bear!”

So now they had something—a definite clue.
The comb went missing… and a Cuckoo came through.
But Binglefont paused—he wouldn’t accuse.
He’d learned from his mother—you think, before you choose.

“Never assume,” she’d said every night.
“When something goes missing, don’t start a fight.
Look for the truth, be patient, be wise.
The facts are your compass—not panic or cries.”

So Binglefont Foo, being wise for his age,
Set off on the path with the Bee in a rage.
Well—the Bee buzzed loudly, the Whazoo did not shout—
Because Binglefont knew what assuming’s about.

They moved up the trail, then moved up some more,
Past beetles and grasshoppers, right to the shore.
Bee saw a green Feathered Whazat that he knew a bit well,
And asked it for directions—and boy did it tell!
For there, on a log, with feathers askew,
Sat the single wandering blue Cuckoo.

“Good day!” said the Whazoo with delicate cheer.
“Have you seen my comb? It’s wandered, I fear.”

“Combs do not roam,” said the bird with a chuckling tone.
“Did you leave it behind with a napkin or pin?
On your mat, in your hat, under crumbs on a plate?
I misplace things too—it’s just part of our fate.”

“No hat and no mat,” Binglefont said, polite.
“I checked my whole house—it just isn’t right.
The Bee said you visited earlier today.
So I thought I would ask, in a courteous way.”

“I did visit the tree, and I greeted this Bee.
But I saw no house—just a stump next to me.”
The Cuckoo then blinked, gave a chuckle and flap,
“Wait—that stump was your house? Oh my, there’s the gap!”

“You had me stumped!” the Cuckoo did cry.
“I thought you meant a house, raised up high!”

“Haha!” laughed Binglefont. “That joke’s a good one.
You’d fit in quite well beneath our friendship’s sun.”
The Bee, no longer angry, hummed with delight.
And all of them smiled, as well as they might.

“But,” said the Cuckoo, remembering anew,
“I did see a bear just waddling through.
It passed by the stump with a sniff and a stare—
And bears, as we know, are curious about lairs.”

“A bear!” gasped Binglefont. “That’s news I can use.
It likely thought every comb came with the honey ooze.
Bears aren’t that clever—but they are quite bold.
And their assumptions, I’m told, can’t be controlled.”

So off he went to the big bear’s den,
And found there a bear. He asked a question right then.
The bear just pointed and muttered, “Back there, round the end.”
He climbed over some roots, and came back again—
With his comb! Just a bit sticky, no worse for the wear.
“I thought it had honey,” confessed the embarrassed bear.

“It didn’t,” said Binglefont. “But that’s okay too.
Next time, try asking—it’s the Whazoo thing to do.”

“Never assume,” he added, not at all snide,
As he walked off to home with his comb and with a satisfied stride.
And the Bee buzzed alongside,
Looking at his friend with generous pride.

Back at his stump, in the shade of the tree,
He polished the comb and sipped honey with Bee.
He placed it in its dome and gave it a nod—
A fuzzy Whazoo with a clean comb—not at all odd!

“You’re there when I need you, though I don’t today, it’s true.
Tomorrow when my fuzz is unkempt again, I’ll be counting upon you.
And just like my mother so wisely often said,
Some things are best saved for what lies ahead.
Never assume and keep your comb clean.”

So if you should wonder, dear reader, it’s true—
Are you as wise as a fuzzy Whazoo?

Afterword

I was sitting there on a calm and warm night, many years ago, when the mood — or perhaps the muse — came upon me and whispered,
“Once in your life, you should write a nursery rhyme. Something old-school, with moral lessons and a few absurdities. Fun and engaging.”
And so, I wrote the first draft of Binglefont Foo. Then I tucked it away, thinking:
“One day I’ll finish this… maybe even add pictures.”

That day finally came. And here we are.
It took longer than I expected. :)