A place to indulge my narcissism... and write stuff...

Humpty Dumpty

I’m not sure when this one oozed into my ear, but it’s been sloshing around a while, so since I have nothing else to write about, now seems a good time to unscramble my thoughts on one messed up nursery rhyme.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
OK, big mistake Dude. You’re extremely obese, literally the shape of an egg. You’re an uneven oval and very unbalanced even when sober. You know you can’t sit still unless you’re in that big, cushy “huev-o-boy,” of yours, so what made you think you could sit on a freakin’ wall? Idiot.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
I wasn’t there, but a “great” fall? I’m sure he didn’t find it good at all, and as falls go, I don’t really consider a plunge of likely less than ten feet great, and this one looked to be six, eight tops. Now falling out of a plane without a parachute and having a few minutes to think about it before being impaled on a steel-barbed wireless tower? That’s a great fall.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Yeah, let’s teach our kids that General Franco and monarchies are all benevolent and somehow still cool. And I’m sure it wasn’t all of them. Workplace absenteeism statistics alone would place some at home riding the horse for non-work purposes or playing with their new Kinect. Plus, who’s back at the castle protecting the monarch? This is nothing but Palace Propaganda.

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
Um, what would motivate them to even try if horses actually could perform micro-surgery in the dirt with their filthy hooves? And how do you know where to put those cloudy little white bits? Even if they tried and to some degree succeeded, Humpty sadly would have devolved from an egg to a brutally scarred eggplant, and that’s only if the medieval medical staff managed to avert a massive, middle ages, black-death type infection culminating in an oozy explosion of egg-fart sudden death. It was the humane thing to do when they just kicked dirt over the shell filled, uncooked omelet.

So who the hell chose to mess up multiple generations by relaying the story?

1 Comment

  1. Barb

    I had no idea how deeply you felt about this, Leo. This makes me feel so much more normal about the many layers of anger and frustration I still feel over the lack of irony in that Alanis Morrisette song about, um, irony.

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