Recently I had a friend go on a rant against blogging as some kind of mutation of the writing art form. I disagreed. Quite strongly. Blogging gives a platform to share, be inspired, and collaborate. You don’t need a degree to produce something incredible. You don’t need to be published to be validated. And you certainly don’t need to spell correctly to say what you want to say. The whole situation reminded me how much I dislike high brow literary folk. So, here’s a little satire. My not-so-passive aggressive response. Enjoy.
High Brow Buffoons
Tommy Tundra liked Sally Sandra, but alliteration felt out of place off the page and he couldn’t quite convince himself it wasn’t all a faze—a healthy experiment with slant rhyme and unmetered timing.
So he called a guy. You know the guy. The one with the answers and a preference for endings that fit the sentence. The one know knows where semicolons go, unlike the rest of us; unlikable, but useful.
The guy answered the phone because he’s always home, gazing out windows and rubbing his chin stubble, troubled. He has a lot on his mind because he puts a lot of stuff there.
So, Tommy asked the guy if it was alright to like something trite and the guy took the query seriously, as he was taught to do in coffee shops and independent movies.
“I’ll get back to you,” he said. Keep them in anticipation, waiting and patient so the belated response is treasured, measured, and taken without a spoon full of sugar or any such helpful balance. The guy had many talents, mostly dicking around.
Tommy Tundra waited and Sally Sandra faded into cremated pages, killed darlings floating on the waves.
And then the guy called Tommy.
“I’ve considered your query most seriously,” he commenced, dancing the tip of his tongue on the receiver, hoping to be put on speaker and heard louder, farther, everywhere.
“And?” Tommy was no wordsmith, but a regular man trying to understand the intricacies of diction and alliteration and love, as if the three were one.
“And, no.” The guy replied. “Your brow is too low, Tommy. Swing ‘em up high and choose someone more exotic.” Toxic, dialect didn’t die but got appropriated into being insightful.
And that was that. Tommy moved on and Sally never knew she was a muse for a day, or two. She grew her auburn hair long and started smoking cowboy killers while Tommy learned to stare out windows and rub his chin stubble, troubled and faking it until the end.
Isn’t it sad to think they were soul mates?
Humanity may, in fact, be doomed.