As the self-anointed Wizard of Words, the Master of Metaphor, the Ruler of Wrote and the Lyrical Alchemist (I don’t even know what that last one means, but I was on a roll) I have a responsibility to — as every contestant on every MTV reality-dating show would say — keep it “real.”
Which is another way of saying this is my column and I’ll write what I want to, write what I want to.
So, there’s going to be a change. See, much like Adam in my own personal Garden of Eden, I’m responsible for the naming of things ... specifically, the nicknaming of things. But one familiar character to this space is simply not living up to the billing.
Don’t worry, The Diva’s still … well … diva-fied, and My Lovely Wife earns her keep in ways far greater than her beauty. But as they say in the soap operas, “the role of Jellybean is now being played by Pokey.”
That’s right folks, Jellybean is no more. Truth be told, she never really was. For those of you new to this space, Jellybean was given her nickname because that’s what she kinda looked like in her sonogram (actually, it was more like a Jolly Rancher, but I didn’t wanna have to type that a million times), but it’s a nickname that has existed in print only.
Jellybean doesn’t know who Jellybean is.
But her personal anonymity is about to be a thing of the past, because, as Forrest Gump might say, “Pokey is as Pokey does.” The child is slower than Aquaman on dry land. I know that she can’t tell time, but I can actually feel my life passing me by in the time it takes for her to make if from the backseat to the front … never mind the fact that I now punch a clock and time, literally, is money.
Pokey don’t play that. She’s gonna take her sweet time, mainly because she gets a kick at Daddy’s Frustrated Face. But it’s like I’ve said before, it’s hard to get mad at something so freakin’ cute … OK, so it’s not that hard, but still.
What’s particularly frustrating is that she appears utterly oblivious to the fact that it takes her 20 minutes to get from the couch to the front door even though I’m pleading for her to speed it up.
“Oh wait …” she says. “Just a second,” she says. “I’m coming,” she says. “Huh?” she says.
Whether it’s walking the dog, eating Pop-Tarts, coming in from the rain, getting out of the bathtub, putting dirty clothes in the laundry basket, choosing a movie or simply getting in the bed, one thing’s for certain — civilizations will rise and fall, galaxies will have been swallowed into black holes and the Oakland Raiders will have a winning season before Pokey gets it done.
At the heart of the matter is Pokey’s entourage. Charlie Sheen has less baggage and his, at least, is of the emotional kind. Whereas Pokey carries around armfuls of actual stuff — fluffy, cumbersome, oddly named animals and dolls that are as attached to her hip as a Siamese twin.
There’s Boo, Marlana, Barney Bear, Giant Baby, LaLa Loopsie, Alpha, Tiny Bunny and Carly — along with her giant fairy book, a bookbag filled with no less than three defunct cell phones, and some random trinket ... either a quarter, a rock, a shell, a rubber band, a colored pencil, lip gloss or sunglasses.
And that’s just for the nine-minute ride to school.
‘Course, she comes by it honestly. Pokey’s what my dad used to call me … come to think of it, he still does.
Contact Brett Buckner at firstname.lastname@example.org.