Jan 5, 2018
If It Walks Like a Duck…
It may be a weird person, like me, just saying, regardless of how it talks
If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck.
Or quite possibly a small person dressed in a duck suit or a family pet encouraged to act duck-like or get flushed. Or a highly trained and camouflaged marsupial who has infiltrated the duck ranks, learned to waddle and quack without drawing any attention to itself, with the intent to take the ducks down from the inside. Not likely I know, just saying that it is possible and that you would benefit, in my opinion, from expanding your what-could-pass-as-a-duck framework.
If I say Bert is my friend, then he is my friend no matter how imaginary your team of doctors and other mental health professionals say he is. And I don’t care if the “putting a hat on his head experiment” resulted in a huge pile of feathered hats on the floor or not — that could mean lots of things….like maybe Bert has a particularly slippery head of hair, which could be solved by using a new anti-greasy shampoo. I know, I know that is my answer to everything.
If it looks like a corporate takeover and it feels like a corporate takeover, then chances are you haven’t been doing your job and have been too busy checking out the classified ads looking for rare Japanese songbirds. You are so unfocused you wouldn’t know a corporate takeover if it hit you in the face. Oh, and by the way, your services are no longer required here. Enjoy the songbird search.
If it looks like butter and it tastes like butter, then it must be butter! And if it ain’t butter, but I can still cover myself with it and go sliding around on my belly on my hardwood floors to my hearts’s desire then you don’t see this guy complaining.
If it looks like an oasis and you are in the dessert and starting to hallucinate due to an extreme thirst and you are starting to see a whole collection of white-clothed men and their camels starting to perform incredibly choreographed numbers from West Side Story, then who am I to tell you it is a mirage? Drink away!
If it looks like a plate of noodles and tastes like a plate of noodles, it is probably a plate of noodles. Although, these days they are most likely not your grandfather’s noodles (but it is probably still your grandfather’s discolored, chipped plate — buy some new plates, cheapo!). Nope, those noodles you just ate were made of either brown rice, quinoa, corn, spelt or some mix of the above. I guess the terrorists have won.
If I act like I own the place and I talk like I own the place, could you at least allow me to pretend that I actually do own the place especially when my parents are visiting in June? I’ve kind of, sort of been telling them that I do own the place and they will probably arrive here expecting me to own the place most likely as a result of all of the photo-shopped photos I’ve sent them and the multiple t-shirts I made up saying things like “My son — the owner of the place,” “My son, we’ve never been so contingently proud of him,” and “My son is no longer a huge disappointment to us, at least for now — it is all dependent on us seeing some actual proof when we visit him in June.” (I know, I know kind of long for a printed message on a t-shirt and maybe it smacks of me trying to hard, but I think they bought it.)
If people collect it like it is great art and they are willing to pay tons of money for it, it must be great art — no matter how ugly, confusing and gaudy it may appear to you. You are clearly not that cultured and would it hurt you to visit the art gallery once and a while so you could stop embarrassing us with your lack of culture? And by “us”, I mean “me”. I am embarrassed daily by your lack of culture. And would it hurt to change your shirt from time to time as well?
If I decide to sing everything I say today as if I were in an opera and it sounds like an opera to my tone-deaf ears, then it is a opera. Either that, or just one really long, meandering song. Regardless, my two wishes for today are coming true — people are leaving me alone (I had a horrible sleep last night) and I am shattering wine glasses (I have plans to buy all of my friends new wine glasses for Christmas).
If it looks like a cow and produces milk like a cow, then it must be a cow. I can’t tell you what it means, if it also says “oink”. It just doesn’t make any sense at all. Maybe some pigs decided to teach the cow to “speak” another language or possibly a few pigs made a cow suit and are hiding inside to scare the farmer or possibly the cow took part in a farm-animal exchange program where a young cow and young pig switch homes for a while. Another explanation is that it was a pig all along and you shouldn’t be trusted with differentiating between various farm animals and the sounds they do or do not make or anything else of high importance as well.
If I move my hips and swing my arms and I call it dancing, then it must be dancing no matter how much it reminds you of a dying swan.
If I cross my Ts like a mass-murderer and I loop my Ls like a mass murderer, I still don’t care what your slew of handwriting experts say — I didn’t do it! I know the evidence seems to point to my guilt, but in the end you will see that I am also the victim here. On the night in question I just happened to be running around the abandoned rose garden brandishing my pruning shears with my face covered in shaving cream after eating a delicious beet salad albeit very messily wearing my mother’s Hawaiian dress. That’s weird to you? Listen — I don’t come to your house and question your gardening skills, methods of grooming, choice of healthy salads and why you have kept your mother’s really old and horribly out-of-style Hawaiian dress, let alone your sanity, so why are you doing it to me? I understand that my writing is pretty strange and worrisome — I get that, I do. I remember my grade two teacher screamed and retreated to the corner the first time she saw me use cursive writing (she also cursed whenever I screamed and retreated to the corner, but that is story for another day), and I also get that the evidence is piled up against me, but what I don’t get is how one becomes a handwriting expert. Really, I’m just saying that it seems like a cool profession and I have no idea how someone gets into that line of work. Do they go to college? Maybe something offered online? Maybe through a series of audio tapes? I’m just saying if I am somehow found innocent, I could be interested.
If he looks like a tall drink of water and is cool like a tall drink of water, that is all well and good, but stop trying to drink him or lick what you think is condensation off of his arms (it actually is condensation which raises a whole series of questions about him and what he is up to, but this isn’t about him right now) — it is just so weird and off-putting. No wonder you are still single and dehydrated all of the time.
If it beeps like a phone and rings like a phone, then it must be phone. What is that you say? Your friend Fiona also beeps and rings? Sorry, what? Are you telling me that all this time when I thought I was ordering pizza, texting my girlfriend and playing games I was actually just touching Fiona? I like to think outside the box and all, but this is fairly strange and it doesn’t even make sense on a number of levels. Stop asking so many questions and “answer” Fiona’s ring? I’m outta here. Can I have my phone back?
If it feels like a rich self-created fantasy land full of friendly witches, trolls with hearts of gold, and unicorns and the fantasyland not only doesn’t disappear when I pinch myself but continues to grow more interesting and compelling as I venture into the forest on my silver steed, then stop trying to wake me up! Isn’t it abundantly clear that I’m happier here?
If it feels like the end stop questioning things, it is the end. Yeesh, what is with you people always overthinking things and analyzing every little tidbit?
