The Humpty Scandal, Uncovered

I cannot be silent about this anymore. The cover-up has been allowed to happen for too many years. It's just another example of governments doing whatever the hell they damn well please and ignoring those who really need help in order to attend to glutting their already overflowing coffers. We all know what happened, but since it hasn't been in the news for awhile, let me refresh your memory. The facts are as follows; at least, they have been presented this way:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.

So he just died. He lay there, on the cobblestones, in a pool of his own yolk, baking sunny-side up in the oppressive heat of the afternoon sun. (I have it on good authority it was at least 97 degrees Fahrenheit that day. Do you have any idea how hot cobblestones can get in that kind of heat, in direct sunlight?)

And -- who is this girl --
some cutesy little assassin? The plot thickens. 

So what does the government do? Oh, sure. The king sends "help." He  (reportedly) sends "all" of his men. But what men? Did any of them have the expertise with eggs that they needed to have to save that poor, suffering puddle of shell and albumen?

I'm sure the royal breakfast was served that day. And there, I am doubly sure, the king sat, consuming the very folk most in need of his help: the egg community. Poor Humpty's soul was running into the cracks of the street while the stuffed shirt of a king was smiling and wrapping the royal lips around one of the cracked creature's terrified, hard-boiled cousins...

But that is neither here nor there. The real question is: Who does the king send? Okay, his "men." I vigorously question whether it was, indeed, all of them, but I have no proof. It just seems unlikely. And God forbid the royal feet should inconvenience themselves by actually waddling over to he scene of the "accident..." (See picture at right.)

We'll pretend that we think that a single bloke among these "men" knew anything whatsoever about egg anatomy. But who else does he send? THE HORSES!? They don't even have fingers. How in the world are they supposed to contribute, even infinitesimally, to putting Humpty back together again?

It's a farce, and we have been silent long enough. We have been force-fed the image of a benevolent king since our cradle days when this anti-eggist agenda has been flourishing.

Does the king care? Is he the least bit invested in the aid he sends to his poor, suffering citizens? Well, not when it comes to the egg community, I can tell you that. I'm sure the Lord of the Realm had a nice chortle in the sun-lit feasting hall that morning, jesting with his poncy little lords about those pathetic, well-meaning horses frantically trying to piece together the broken body of Humpty without the benefit of opposable thumbs, or, for that matter, without phalanges of any kind.

Rest in pieces, Humpty, because that is all this cold world and its chill-hearted tyrants would allow you.

The Wond'rous Fall of Dirk Goodteeth

There are few things as mystifying as the joy that children take from building with blocks and then knocking them down. They clap joyfully as their hard work crumbles loudly down around them. Then they get building again and do it all over. The clops and clacks of plummeting pinewood and gleeful chuckles in concert are, well, kind of scary, if you think about it.

We like to build and we like to destroy, instinctually. We can agree on that. What is unsettling is that we seem to like to do this with people as we mature. So it goes from pine to flesh -- but not just any flesh. Movie screen flesh. Athletic field flesh. Reality TV flesh.  (Fortunately, most of us are slightly less sadistic than to do this to people we actually know.  We are not as savage as the warrior with the ax, all covered in gore -- we are the far more civilized sniper deftly picking off his target from a thousand yards out.)  Stars. Celebrities. We build them up. We put them up on a flatboard Olympus by purchasing the tickets, snacks and merchandise that pay their astronomical salaries and then we watch those celebrities try to "fill 'er up" with adulation and material baubles, which of course just doesn't work. Then we sit back, rip open the chips and enjoy a good tragic fall.

So far, so good. Leading man, Dirk Goodteeth, gets caught testing the shocks of his Land Rover with a highly-skilled girl named Snowy in central park. (Nice!) The Vicar of the Church of Happy Angels lifts his mitre and child pornography tumbles out around the feet of his flock. (Even better!) The beloved host of "Family Rocks!" turns up on video, in bed with seventeen naked women (that his wife doesn't even know) at a motel in Akron. (Sublime!) The media is abuzz with chattering energy . . .

Then, things settle. The crickets chirp.

Now what? You Tube hits drop. The last news magazine report has been aired. No one cares any more. So we do what we must: We let our fallen heroes say they are sorry and we restore them to their former glory.

"But the guy is a sex addict, Myrtle -- try to understand . . ."

"He has taken responsibility for his actions . . . that's noble . . ."

"She admitted she lied under oath. That took courage . . ."

I’m not saying we shouldn’t forgive. Philosophically speaking, forgiveness is good stuff. (A whole handful of guys in robes and sandals have said so for millenia, if you need verification.)  I’m just a little afraid of why we do it so easily. Could it be that if we take a moral stand and tell our icons we won't support them anymore that we face the risk of eventually running out of block towers to push over?

CRASH. Hee-hee-hee . . .