Posted by David
on Mar 22, 2012 in Upside-down Hippo
| 0 comments
I forgot how much I love writing, by which I categorically do not mean hunching over a keyboard and squeezing letters out onto a screen through a narrow and unforgiving sphincter in my brain. Writing is the worst part of writing; the best part is having things in the world strike me in a certain way that relates to other things in the world. Juxtapositions evoke words and turns of phrase that can bounce around merrily, reproducing and evolving, for days until the moment comes to type them out and I forget them all.
Facebook has bastardized this process for me, because for the past few years I have been able to capture ideas closer to the moment of inception, however this quick hit has robbed the world of my delightful ruminations and has generated other trouble besides.
And thus we come to the Great Daffodil Controversy of 2012 (as distinct from the Great Daffodil Controversies of 2006 and 2007). That daffodils are the most hideous thing ever has been well documented here and here and here, and I blame the mainstream media for keeping the population in the dark—although, because I am nothing if not a unbridled optimist, I assumed my Facebook Friendsies would share my evolved views on this subject.
Remember how Fonzie could never say he was wrong? He would be all, “I was wr– I was wr–,” and Potsie waould say, “You were wrong, Fonz?”, and Fonzie would say, “Yeah, that thing.” Anyway, I, too, have to admit that I was wr–. I mean, I was wr–.
Well, the thing is, I overestimated my audience. Two days ago, while on walking Goblin Foo through the neighborhood, I encountered a specimen of the vile flora and posted, “Daffodils are the ugliest flower.” I arrived home minutes later to at least five indignant responses, which increased to dozens over the course of the day. Even at school, my sacred space was violated by numerous unprovoked challenges to my hastily expressed but commonsensical opinion.
Had my blog been active at that time, I might have been able to expand on my initial impression and juxtapose it with thoughts on the cultural implication of werewolves or the over-prescription of statin drugs, and everyone would have been too dazzled by my brilliance to go scrounging around for the pitchforks
But I suppose prophets are never appreciated in their own time.
DENNIS: That’s a nice gourd.
DENNIS: How much do you want for the gourd?
BRIAN: I don’t. You can have it.
DENNIS: Have it?
BRIAN: Yes. Consider the lilies…
DENNIS: Eh, d– d– don’t you want to haggle?
BRIAN: No. …in the field.
DENNIS: What’s wrong with it, then?
BRIAN: Nothing. Take it.
ELSIE: Consider the lilies?
BRIAN: Uh, well, the birds, then.
EDDIE: What birds?
BRIAN: Any birds.
BRIAN: Well, have they got jobs?
BRIAN: The birds.
EDDIE: Have the birds got jobs?!
FRANK: What’s the matter with him?
ARTHUR: He says the birds are scrounging.
BRIAN: Oh, uhh, no, the point is the birds. They do all right. Don’t they?
FRANK: Well, good luck to ’em.
EDDIE: Yeah. They’re very pretty.
BRIAN: Okay, and you’re much more important than they are, right? So, what are you worrying about? There you are. See?
EDDIE: I’m worrying about what you have got against birds.
BRIAN: I haven’t got anything against the birds. Consider the lilies.
ARTHUR: He’s having a go at the flowers now.
EDDIE: Oh, give the flowers a chance.