Day 18 (the hidden poetry of the dumb)
My least favorite dog’s owners are just stupid people. It didn’t take me all that long to figure it out, considering I’d never even met them. I could just tell. After the first day, when I went to fill out the ridiculous pink report card for the dog and in glancing around, did not immediately see a pen, a bell went off. Not only no pen, but no pencil, crayon, marker, chalk- nothing to write with. I don’t trust people who never write anything down.
Plus they always leave the television on for the dog. And I can just tell who left home last, between the husband and the wife. Most times I let myself in and am immediately greeted by the sight of –no, not the lackadaisical dog—the large-screen TV lingering on a dewy close-up of some bad actor or actress, with their skittery soap-opera eye contact and thick foundation. I’m guessing that’s the Mrs. But once in a while, the TV’s tuned to MSNBC, with its tabloid take on everything, and freeway of news crawls racing across the bottom of the screen. The dog’s never watching anyway.
Today’s visit, however, unearthed a new gem of evidence of their dullness. Not only theirs, but their friends. In the corner of the living room, on top of a speaker, sort of hidden behind an armchair, was an 8x10 Lucite picture frame, the kind that’s all one piece, with a curved base.
There wasn’t a photo in there, though. I looked closer. It was a poem! A poem for the couple’s wedding, written by one of their friends. I seized it with horrified glee, sure it would be bad. That much was apparent from the appearance of the document itself—it was centered narrowly and painstakingly down the page in a large, florid font, and different “stanzas” were printed in a dazzling variety of vivid colors. Dotted mechanically around the borders were primitive looking clip art images of gift boxes, complete with bows on top. It looked like something I would have done as a child.
I also noticed that each stanza was exactly four lines long, and that at some point, something had gotten spilled on it, so a few of the gifts were streaky.
I stood there and read the whole thing, snickering at choice lines, while the Dog sulked in its bed, shifting fitfully every now and then.
The poem was perfectly rhyming couplets, ab ab ab ab ab ab. It was all about how she was so great, and pretty, and he was so handsome, and great, and how they’re such a great couple, and they were just meant to be.
“Yuck.” I said as I put it back down, and tried to rally the dog for its walk. I glanced at the TV. Some big-haired woman was yelling about Brad.
God they were dumb. Dumb, rich, arrogant people just about my age, who lived in a penthouse in one of New York’s most expensive neighborhoods and had a bratty dog that they left the TV on for all day, and needlepoint pillows exalting shopping, but never any pens lying around.
Plus they always leave the television on for the dog. And I can just tell who left home last, between the husband and the wife. Most times I let myself in and am immediately greeted by the sight of –no, not the lackadaisical dog—the large-screen TV lingering on a dewy close-up of some bad actor or actress, with their skittery soap-opera eye contact and thick foundation. I’m guessing that’s the Mrs. But once in a while, the TV’s tuned to MSNBC, with its tabloid take on everything, and freeway of news crawls racing across the bottom of the screen. The dog’s never watching anyway.
Today’s visit, however, unearthed a new gem of evidence of their dullness. Not only theirs, but their friends. In the corner of the living room, on top of a speaker, sort of hidden behind an armchair, was an 8x10 Lucite picture frame, the kind that’s all one piece, with a curved base.
There wasn’t a photo in there, though. I looked closer. It was a poem! A poem for the couple’s wedding, written by one of their friends. I seized it with horrified glee, sure it would be bad. That much was apparent from the appearance of the document itself—it was centered narrowly and painstakingly down the page in a large, florid font, and different “stanzas” were printed in a dazzling variety of vivid colors. Dotted mechanically around the borders were primitive looking clip art images of gift boxes, complete with bows on top. It looked like something I would have done as a child.
I also noticed that each stanza was exactly four lines long, and that at some point, something had gotten spilled on it, so a few of the gifts were streaky.
I stood there and read the whole thing, snickering at choice lines, while the Dog sulked in its bed, shifting fitfully every now and then.
The poem was perfectly rhyming couplets, ab ab ab ab ab ab. It was all about how she was so great, and pretty, and he was so handsome, and great, and how they’re such a great couple, and they were just meant to be.
“Yuck.” I said as I put it back down, and tried to rally the dog for its walk. I glanced at the TV. Some big-haired woman was yelling about Brad.
God they were dumb. Dumb, rich, arrogant people just about my age, who lived in a penthouse in one of New York’s most expensive neighborhoods and had a bratty dog that they left the TV on for all day, and needlepoint pillows exalting shopping, but never any pens lying around.
posted by Unleashed at 6:41 PM
1 Comments:
Some of the most so-called "successful" people are the dumbest! Just goes to show you can't buy taste or common sense.
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