Monday, May 25, 2009

Chicken fried bacon.
I sit here in stunned silence. I am without metaphor. It's not exactly "gilding the lily". I wonder what chicken fried lily would taste like. Not daylilies. They would wilt before you got 'em to the fryer. Nothing should wilt before you get it to the fryer. Unless you spelled it "friar". I really don't know enough about the monastic life though to even hazard a guess as to whether they fry lilies. Or if they even spell them "lillys" as one might do if he were consulting google in order to correct his spelling, but rather than landing on a link that was, say, a link to a dictionary, instead they clicked on a link to some undereducated blogger named "Lilly". But what if the blogger was really named "Lilli" and, though her name was spelled that way because she had been raised by hippie parents who named their daughters, "Lilli", "Sunlight", and "Griffin", had instead chosen the name "Lilly" as her blogging pen name? Then not only the reliability of the spelling, but the very essence of meaning would be challenged down to its roots. Which really don't grow that deep. I mean, most lilies are bulbs and rarely have a root system that extends much more than, say, five inches below the bulb, and far less than that distance in circumference. And bulbs have always been believed to have been essentially round. Even before Columbus the world believed in round bulbs. It wasn't until the 19th century that some hoaxer came up with the notion that medieval man believed in flat bulbs. But they didn't. There's just no way that medieval men in their thatched roof cottages could hope to light those homes with flat bulbs. They wouldn't give off sufficient light to read their copies of Beowulf and Saturday Evening Post. Though they could probably get the gist of the cover illustration because of the oversize of the publication, and Norman Rockwell's very literal interpretations of everyday living. Sometimes, late at night by the light of round lily bulb flashlights held surreptitiously beneath the covers, medieval youths would read their Beowulf comic books and listen to far away ball games on crystal radios with a tiny earpiece whining the voices of Jack Buck and Harry Carey into their little medieval ears. Then, of course, medieval moms would yell from the bottom of the stairs to "SHUT OFF THAT LIGHT AND GO TO BED, YOUNG MAN!", while dad would climb the stairs, crack open the door, and ask for an update on the score.

1 comment:

  1. i like the shot toward the end with the dude smoking while eating the chicken fried bacon