Tag: nursery rhyme

Row-Row-Row Your Boat (as retold by Dr. Fin)

Yo, look at me Jack! I’m on top of the world y’all!

Once upon a time…

Some pushy, bossy coxswain ordered me to “Row, row, row your boat! Row it now, but gently down this stream!”

And I was like, “I don’t even have a boat… How am I supposed to row gently and joyfully and peacefully, when you’re barking out orders like I’m training for Brown University’s rowing team? And what stream, you bald mongoose posing as a ship captain?”

I was so confused on so many levels.

And then, merrily,-merrily-merrily, I realized it was all just a dream.

If today you feel life is too demanding—like some inescapably irritating middle-schooler taunting and droning like a broken record-player, “I’m not touching you, I’m not touching you. I know you are but what am I?”—then simply say, “Row your own dirty boat!” When life gives you lemons… take those lemons and squirt that acidic juice right into life’s corneas, and say “Get out of here! No one asked for these disgusting, sour citrus balls! What’s with this sassy, lost child?”

Know your limits. Learn to say no. It’s ok, you don’t have to do everything. Not even Superman can prevent tax season. You can’t throw a life preserver out to someone in the ocean if you’re also out in the water drowning. [Insert other pithy axioms here.]

Also, why would someone row anyways? We’ve got speed boats with engines. Better yet, I’ll just drive across the bridge. No need to risk getting wet. I feel much better now. Sometimes you just need to vent a little bit. What a therapeutic exercise this was!

Everything changed the day she figured out there was exactly enough time for the important things in her life. – Brian Andreas

This Little Piggy (as retold by Dr. Fin)

Or: How changing the system must begin with changing the self

Once upon a time…

There was this one little piggy. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking: “another story about swine?” I’m not exactly sure what it says about the human condition that we return to piggly wiggly allegories time and again. Perhaps, deep down, we’re all really anxious and insecure about our place in the cosmos—feeling like predestined bacon trapped in pens awaiting our fate. Either that, or we’re just not very creative.

Anyhow, this one little piggy went to the market. I’m assuming they went shopping, but maybe the “market” is a euphemism for the slaughterhouse. Wow, this nursery rhyme got rather dark rather quickly.

Now, there was another little piggy who opted to stay home. Good for him or her. Smart choice. You never know what the “market” means nowadays.

Then, this third little piggy had roast beef. OK, wait a second, what‽ Since when the heck do pigs eat beef? Look, I know that pigs are omnivores and all, but seriously, when’s the last time you saw a pack of wild hogs hunting cattle? That would certainly be something for National Geographic to document. Does this mean that pigs are at the top of the pecking order at farms? Like, do the cows live in terror that they may one day become roast beef for a ravenous little piggy just so that the porker can then, in turn, become part of a Grand Slam breakfast platter? Gives a whole new perspective to the whole Animal Farm scenario.

But, of course, the fourth little piggy had none. Because the other one ate it all? Or maybe it was a peaceful protest against eating other animals. Gandhi pig?

And, then, inevitable as the love-bugs stuck to your car’s front hood, the fifth littlest piggy went “Wee, wee, wee!” all the way home. Afraid for their life or bubbling with the joyous thrill of life? You decide. Choose your own pig-themed adventure.

The End

Morals of the story:

  1. Don’t trust the “market.”
  2. Don’t mess with a hungry piggy.
  3. Do be the change that you want to see in the world; unless your ideas about change are terrible and would just make the world worse. In that case, refer to morals one and two: don’t.

Hey Diddle Diddle (as retold by Dr. Fin)

Once upon a time…

Two wee, little diddles…

Wait, what’s a diddle?

Ok… just let me look it up. I shouldn’t have looked it up. There are several definitions here. Who has time for this? Just pick one definition for words people. What’s with all this confusing nonsense of some words having multiple meanings and some meanings having multiple words? First definition: to cheat someone out of something. Oh, I know another word for that: taxes. Second definition: to pass time aimlessly. I guess I’m diddling right now. Third definition: never mind, don’t look it up, you don’t want to know and neither do I.

Anyways, there was this cat with a fiddle who was a diddler. But that doesn’t make sense because a cat who fiddles is rather impressive. That would get all the hits on YouTube; even give Grumpy Cat a run for his money.

Then this cow jumped over the moon. That’s so cliché nowadays. Cows always be jumping over moons, don’t they? You want to impress me, try to kitty fiddle diddle over the kiddie muddle puddle three times fast. And then jump over the International Space Station.

Next, some little dog laughed to witness these sporting shenanigans (I guess the cow was training for the Chick-fil-A Hunger Games). Because why not have a dog giggling with hysteria in this tale about diddle, fiddling cats and Olympian high jump heifers?

And the dish ran away with the spoon. A tale as old as time. Forbidden love. A classic retelling of Romeo and Juliet. What’s in a name that which we call a dish by any other name would still be a plate that we eat off of be it plastic or fine china? For never was a story of more woe than this of Cuisinart and her Sango.

The End

Morals of the story:

  1. Words are confusing because they’re mostly descriptive rather than prescriptive. How are we supposed to communicate with anyone? One says a dish and spoon could never work out. Another says that the labels of dish and spoon are just social constructions imposed upon us by the cutlery-patriarchy. So, I guess, just say what you mean and mean what you say, or something… or if you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say I told you so, or never mind, on to the next one.
  2. Don’t just diddle your life away waiting for something amazing to happen like an athletic bovine show. Do something with your life. Now. Take up fiddling or pottery. Just be careful that all of your ceramics don’t fall in love, elope, and bankrupt your business.

Jack and Jill (as retold by Dr. Fin)

Equality at its Most Consistent

This one hypothetical day…

Two degenerate ruffians named Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water. Now immediately, I have questions about this story. How are these characters related, and how old are they? I assume they’re siblings and that their parents have instructed them to go retrieve some water from a well on top of a hill. But they’re clearly not responsible or coordinated enough to accomplish this task. So, who do we blame: the five-year-old for crashing the car into the house or the parent who left the keys in the ignition? In America, we blame the car manufacturer and sue them for millions.

Also, why are the watering holes always located in such inconvenient places? Why don’t people just build their homes closer to the water source? Like, water’s important, right? I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before. I think I learned in class once before that water is essential for a couple of things like coffee, and I drink that all the time. So, if it’s so important, you’d think people would make it easier to get to. Also, conserve water. Don’t brush your teeth.

Then Jack fell down and broke his crown. I’m assuming this refers to his head. If he had a royal crown he wouldn’t be fetching his own water that’s for sure. Alas, if he broketh his head, dost not that imply perchance he’s dead? Oh look, I made a rhyme. This is a nursery rhyme after all. And then Jill, not to be outdone by her brother came tumbling after. Because girls can do anything boys can do but better. Equality across the board, even in massive head traumas.

The End

The morals of the story:

  1. When life gives you a watering hole at the top of a hill, make an epic slip-n-slide.
  2. Life is about who we are, not just what we do. What I do is write nonsensical hot garbage on the Internet. But that hardly makes me special. Legacy is about the lives we touch. Just watch Coco. It’s about the memories that we shared and leave with those we loved—like that time when my sibling and I slipped on a slippery slope (because lots of water) and busted our head making us fall into a coma—so a double fall. Except, I guess I don’t remember cause coma… but someone told me about it later… maybe?

Humpty Dumpty (as retold by Dr. Fin)

Lessons on why you can’t make affordable health omelets without breaking a few eggs

On a particular occurrence…

There was one rotund and portly gentleman by the name of Sir Humpty Dumpty Esquire the Fifth who had a particular fondness of sitting atop certain ramparts and parapets. Basically, like planking before planking—extreme parkour wall siting. Now, given his stocky nature, it is a mystery to me how exactly he ascended these structures in the first place. He must have been uniquely agile and deft for his stout stature. Or maybe he used a ladder.

Now that I think about it, if your name is Humpty Dumpty, you probably shouldn’t be participating in high-adrenaline, high-octane sports. Like you’re just asking for an accident to happen. Also, was this his given name by his parents, or did he choose this name?

Nevertheless, one day, our plump protagonist sat on a wall, and lo indeed, he had a great fall. So tremendous was the fall that our dear Dumpty was torn asunder and fragmented into pieces. Because apparently, he was a giant anthropomorphic egg or something like that. So then, the king’s posse of ponies and paladins were called in. Why didn’t they just call a doctor or a surgeon? I don’t know. Seriously, horses have hooves—not the greatest combination when placed near a fragile egg. Government efficiency at its finest. Predictably and dreadfully, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not put Sir Humpty Dumpty back together again because he was not covered by the in-network health insurance, and eggs do not have a basic right to receive medical care, even when it’s a common, curable ailment. Also, they were terrible at solving puzzles. So, then everyone had omelets.

The End

The morals of the story:

  1. The American health care system is terrible, but you already knew that. So, take care of your body because the king’s horses and men won’t. Maybe consider a medical sharing or health savings plan.
  2. If your bodily constitution is made up of essentially an eggshell, don’t sit on walls.
  3. If you feel certain body parts are a little too round or little too squishy, don’t fret too much. You just do you, you gorgeous specimen of humanity.

The Itsy Bitsy Spider (as retold by Dr. Fin)

Philosophical Ponderings of the Perennial Parable

On one occasion atop the temporal dimension…

There was an itsy bitsy spider. Or maybe it was incy wincy? What’s the difference? Probably has to do with those Brits across the Big Pond trying to colonialize more of our culture just like with their pop star singers and BBC television series. It’s a Second Revolutionary War, but this time, they cast an English actor as Superman.

So, this itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot spider wore a bikini for the first time today because she was feeling rather confident and sassy. But her poise would become a slippery slope indeed. For as she began to ascend one desirable waterspout, the most magnificent and beautiful of all gutter drains, that is when the floodgates opened up and a torrential, watery vengeance descended upon our fair heroine. Alas, she was swept away by the wave and with it her aspirations to climb the socio-economic ladder—giving new meaning to the term “trickle-down economics.”

But then! Arise the sun did, and the floods were evaporated as if nothing but a shadowy memory. Then the vertically challenged arachnid traversed and climbed up the spout again to stand triumphantly with her dignity intact and her eyes (all eight of them) gleaming in the soft glow of sun beams.

Now, one might be tempted to deconstruct this nursery rhyme as merely a more child-friendly retelling of the tragic Greek myth of Sisyphus who was condemned to an eternity of pushing a boulder up a hill just to watch it roll back down again and again. But I believe there is more optimism warranted of our eight-legged legend.

You see, in life, there will be storms. When it rains, it pours, and when you’re stuck in a drain pipe, you’re probably confused about the purpose of pipes (I’ll give you a hint: they’re not for climbing). But it’s not about avoiding the rains. It’s about what you choose to do in the midst of them, and what you choose to continue to do after them. Falling down gives us the opportunity to learn how to stand back up. And getting caught in the rain gives us the opportunity to eat lemon drops and gum drops that taste like smog and soot.

The sun will come out again.

The End

The morals of the story:

  1. Keeping faith that the sun will rise gives us the strength to endure and the courage to face the rains.
  2. Next time, just take the stairs. Or at least bring an umbrella/galoshes/raincoat. No one likes wet socks.