This song is the archetype of what we had in mind when we started “Humpday Hymn”. Handclaps? Check. Repetitive refrain recalls? Present! Humming hymn here? HELL YES! All that and my addiction to alliteration (see: Monday Mood, Throwback Thursday, etc) of course. So, when Fallon closed the show with a folksy burly country boy shufflin around like some mix of Elvis and Mick Jagger, channel surfing stopped, and one couldn’t turn away. You won’t turn away either after the first 30 seconds, GUARANTEE it. Seeing as it is Humpday, and you’re halfway to the Weekend – GETCHU A DRINK, YOU S.O.B.!
You know what’s the worst? Shallots. One time, in a fleeting moment, a miniscule slip-up, I called a shallot an onion. You know what that got me? A condescending shit storm from on high. A response dripping in the top most elitist upper-echelon disdain. A cast-off wave of the hand like I was nothing more than disheveled ball of human waste. “Oh no, you’re mistaken young man! I’m not an onion, I’m a shallot!” Of fucking course you’re a shallow shallot. I can see your goddamned monocle from here.
Ever been to a shallot’s house? Trick question. They live on estates surrounded grand grotesque gardens, private parks purchased on the back of account interest, stretching out forever and forever, blanketing the entire horizon in green. Shallots throw out casual sentences like “Meet me in the third floor western conservatory for tea and biscuits this afternoon. Black tie only.” Or, “I can’t make tennis this evening, Phil. Margaret and I are getting foot sole reconstructive plastic surgery. We accidently wore sandals on a public sidewalk.” Or, “The maid forgot to restock the toilet paper. It’s fine though, I told her we could just use property deeds for urban neighborhoods. Well unless you trust the unfiltered water in the bidet…” Fuck shallots, man.
It wouldn’t be so bad if they were at least altruistic or rocking philanthropist pursuits on the side or even just comingling with the general public from time to time. But they don’t. They just hoard, keeping all their little secret flavorings of the high life away inside themselves. You ever see a shallot spend time in a chain restaurant? Fuck no! They send stinky white onions in their stead, cheaper knock-off stand-ins to hold their place. They can’t handle normalcy. And that’s not to say I love chain food. I don’t. It’s just to say, well why can’t a shallot ever share in a sandwich with Joe Blow? What’s so wrong with that?
There’s nothing wrong with it. They’re just too good for us. They’d rather hole away up in their castles of mass corruption, lording above us all. They’d rather judge and mock at our feeble lives, laughing as we struggle. They’d rather be flippant, condescending assholes with no concept of the real world or how real people get by. So fuck ‘em! We don’t need to spend time worrying about what shallots are up to. We’ve got red onions and white onions and green onions and chives. It might not good enough for them. But it’s good enough for us.
You’ve thought it, posted it and regretted it. Sometimes, you may have been a
bit bigoted jackhole, sometimes you were somewhere in between Trevor Noah, Jerry Seinfeld, and Curtis Jackson. Whatever the case is, its clear in 2015 – more than ever – that somewhere, somehow even Gandhi’s dieting, and Mother Teresa’s prude self would be crossing the line for some poor sap who is a offense-detector. Here’s a hilarious take on how to avoid an AIDS fire, ebola hurricane, or meningitis tsunami or any biting comeback in such an event: