Yellow

“You don’t really mean that.”
“But it’s so irritating! The thing just starts turning yellow and won’t stop! And then when it can’t possibly get any more yellow, it flips over to green again!”
“But writing on it... in pencil...”
“It helps! My math teacher said so.”
“But it’s not calculus anymore. It’s just a frog. It can’t help being yellow or green or anything.”
“It could if it tried, and that’s what bothers me. It just won’t put in the effort. It doesn’t like me enough, apparently.”
“You don’t know that! It’s probably an environmental thing. The light shining on it, or something. Green reflects more light than yellow, you know.”
“No it doesn’t. Yellow absorbs fewer wavelengths. Anyhow, the light doesn’t change! Just the frog. It goes yellow, yellow, yellow, bloody yellow, more yellow, utterly insufferably impossibly frustrating yellow... green! And it’s my frog regardless. I can write on it in pencil if I want to.”
“Well, it’s not really yours. The tennis coach only lent it to you so you could tell the difference between it and a tennis ball. It’s sort of a school mascot, you know.”
“It’s the same size as a tennis ball. I don’t see how it’s my fault that it was flying in my direction.”
“How did that happen, anyway? Did it just hop down from somewhere, or what?”
“Nobody knows. It was just sort of there, and then it was sort of in front of my racket. Now you’ve gotten me distracted! Where’s it gone?”
“It crawled under the table while we were talking. I didn’t want to bring it up.”
“Well, help me find it! Oh. There it is. But it’s YELLOW. Watch. It’ll get so yellow you can’t stand it, and then it’ll just – change. Just at the moment you don’t expect it, it’ll go green again, with that damned reptilian –”
“Amphibian.”
“What?”
“Amphibian. Frogs are amphibious.”
“Oh, right. With that damned amphibian smugness. Look! Did you see that? You missed it, didn’t you? It just went bloody green again. You missed it. I’m going to have to write on it, you know.”
“No, no, don’t. I guess I did miss it. Look – why don’t you stop worrying about the frog for a while? Let’s go eat something.”
“Okay.”

War

Again my enemy approaches. His movements should be so obvious, so transparent, but he takes advantage of my lack of focus and slips away from my grasp. When I finally capture him, he will still have the moral victory of being constantly present and constantly irritating. Every day I fight this battle, in an endless war of attrition, in the vain hope that this time will be different, this time I will emerge victorious, having finally been able to properly insert my contact lenses.
The finger, bearing its translucent, malevolent payload, approaches my eye. Gah! Eyelash. I blink furiously, clearing the tears welled up from a hundred and thirty million years of mammalian evolution. The contact laughs. No, it cackles, cackles with the knowledge of one more failure amidst hundreds past. I glare at it through unremedied blurry vision. This time my eyes reflexively close as the lens touches them, turning it neatly inside out and dropping it into the sink. This time it remains silent, but I can feel the malicious joy radiating from its mockingly fragile body.
One last time I make the attempt, concentrating furiously on holding my eyes open, open, open to receive that which alternately plagues and supports me.

It goes in.

Oh.

That was easy.

Yes

Today I saw a Sign. It hovered there, in glowing red letters, and it simply said “YES.” While such a Sign could obviously not have any other than supernatural origin, nonetheless I pondered its meaning. Yes, what? Yes, there is a God? Yes, there is life on other worlds? Yes, we have no bananas?
Perhaps it was both all and none of these. It was a universal affirmation: Yes, everything. Everything exists; if not now, then in the past or the future. Everything will happen eventually. Everything that has happened eventually will be inconsequential next to everything that will happen. Everything is real.
Or maybe, just maybe, if one is pessimistic and uncreative, and believes that the world is a boring, boring place, where supernatural affirmations are but poorly-worded advertising, it could have been an indication of vacancies available in the hotel to which it was affixed. Yes.

Flowers

“O my love is a red, red rose.” Who came up with this oft-repeated poetic sampler? Nobody seems to know. But he must not have liked “his love” too much – she was apparently delicate, thorny, finicky, and promiscuous. Poetic descriptions are not only generally nauseating but also largely misleading. Is the love in question of particular interest to aphids? Does she spend the spring months busily luring as many bees as possible to spread her genes to any and all other members of her species? Is she likely to be bundled with eleven others into a declaration of somebody else’s love? Does she, to be blunt, photosynthesize?
No?
Then don’t call her a rose.

Euphemistically Speaking

Laffy taffy. Slow motion. Bubble gum.
I should really go wash my mouth out right now, because I just said "[posterior]," "to dance in a sexy manner" and either "[genitalia]," "[external genital surface]," or "marijuana."

Let's say the proverbial alien arrives on our planet and begins to experience this wonderful pop culture of ours. The songs Laffy Taffy and Slow Motion, at least in their edited and thus more common versions, would be merely... well... music, technically.
Just as a traveller lost in Tijuana will very probably pick up at least some acquaintance with the Spanish language in just a week or two, though, the aforementioned phrases and many others have a nasty way of revealing their intended meanings. If someone goes to "powder her nose," in the general direction of the specialized room reserved for human excretory functions, there is a reasonable chance she will be performing one of these functions while thus sequestered. If a song instructs the listener (presumably a "gurrl" as referred to in the song) to "shake that laffy taffy," is it a reasonable conclusion that the artist wishes all girls hearing the song to vigorously wave a piece of candy?

I suppose my point is this: It's far too easy to slip stuff into people's heads. Songs like this are sneaky: a cheerful little song with candy-coated lyrics gets into your memory, and then somebody tells you what the lyrics mean, and then you're stuck with knowing this fun song and knowing exactly how offensive it is.

Ah well. It must be harmless, right? I mean, look at all the great stuff the generation exposed to this culture has done. Oh... right.

Goodies, and a tone of angry.

I heard a conversation today that inexplicably left me completely cracking up for the next half-hour.

Black girl #1: (singing..ish) My goodies, my goodies, my goodies...
Black girl #2: Yeah... so old though.
Black girl #1: What?!
Black girl #2: No no, I mean the song, not your goodies!

I think it was the earnest, concerned way #2 said it, worried that her comment could quite legitimately have been taken as an insult to her perhaps seventeen-year-old friend's, ah, "goodies."


Earlier today, I read an essay. It was really quite an impressive essay, an anchor from the 2003 or 2004 AP Lit exam, about a speech delivered by Alfred M. Green in 1861. I'll just quote bits of it here for you, dear reader, and let you marvel in its linguistic splendor.
"Alfred M. Green in his speech in Philadelphia in April 1861, during the first month of the civil war, tries to persuade African Americans to join the Union army by provoking feelings of tone with diction, and pacing with syntax."
This sentence starts out all right, mainly because it's copied directly from the prompt. Feelings of tone with diction, I'm quite certain, has some deep meaning that I'm failing to grasp by reason of not being clinically insane. Pacing with syntax, on the other hand, clearly refers to... um... never mind.

"Green does this in the first paragraph when he says '...bravery and patriotism of a race in whose hearts burns the love of country, of freedom, and of civil and religious toleration...'. This use of diction gives a tone of pride and patriotism. The diction here is simple enough for the common man to understand, yet still provokes the feeling of pride."
Fair enough. Pride, patriotism, yup. Diction is probably the right word to use, given that "diction" is a fancy way of saying "language," and Mr. Green is certainly using a language.

"In line twentyfive; Green says 'While we remember the past...to hope for the future" and inspires a hopeful tone, which contradicts the second paragraph's tone of angry."
I love this sentence, I really do. I'm not sure what tone of angry the second paragraph had, since the writer in fact has made no prior reference to the second paragraph whatsoever, but hey, it's a tone of angry. Who am I, or the MLA, or English teachers in grades two through eleven, to argue?

"He makes African American's seem worthy of recognition and at this time of the nineteenth century that was a lot."
I suppose the African American he's referring to has as much right to a seem as anyone else, though off the top of my head I cannot actually ascertain that anyone I know or have ever heard of has such a thing. The tense error between "this" and "that" is, of course, hardly worth mentioning, given the vast spectacles of stupendously splendiferous English that await.

"Green, again envoices the anger tone in the last paragraph when he quotes the South in lines 41 through 45. This makes African Americans at that time hurtful and angry. Then when he quotes a line from the Constitution in line 49&50, the tone again goes to hopeful and full of [price?]"
I sincerely regret that I could not read the last word of this sentence, as I am sure that it would greatly enlighten me as to exactly how one goes about quoting an entire squabbling region. I believe, in this case, that Mr. Green was in fact using a rhetorical strategy known as hyperbole, demonizing the South in order to further persuade his audience. But no matter; this masterful author has, in my opinion, a far better-established ethos than some old political blowhard from the nineteenth century. And lo! the anger tone returns.

"This speech goes by fairly quickly and reads nicely, therefore the pacing used in the syntax creates persuasion and paired with the rapidly changing..."
I regrettably had to desist in my consumption of this literary cornucopia at this point, because my throat was making involuntary choking noises, perhaps in response to the utterly glorious realm of expression this author has expanded into. I read the sentence several times over; oddly enough, there were few of the fascinating linguistic and syntactical permutations thus far encountered on my journey. It was, in fact, the meaning of this sentence which so arrested my attention. In fact, I am still looking for any discernible logic in the second phrase. Any assistance in deciphering the inexpressably deep inner meaning of this sentence would be greatly appreciated.

Stylops shannoni

Stylops shannoni is a small creature you have no reason to care about. Absolutely none. It is an insect parasite, most noted by Jeyaraney Kathirithamby (say that three times fast) for its twisted wings. Perhaps because of his long name, J.K. has a tendency to be long-winded, and takes a great deal of words merely to say that the males live inside other insects for a while and then come out when they’re good and ready. The entire purpose of the remainder of their life is to find and fertilize a female, which tells you how totally unlike our society theirs is.
J.K.’s one apparent trace of character is his comparison of the eyes of these parasites to raspberries; I realize that I am turning this more into a discussion of J.K. than of Stylops, so I shall attempt to get back on subject. The females, by contrast (to the males, that is, not to J.K.) retain a larval appearance and for the most part remain sedentary throughout their lives. They lack eyes, wings, legs, antennae and other things I don’t plan to tell you about because it would get you curious about how the males intend to go about their task, and I neither know nor have the desire to know the details. If you wish to know more about this spectacularly uninteresting creature, search for the word “instar”, as J.K. certainly uses it more than he ought. I’m sorry, I’m going on about J.K. again, but I simply can’t help it. He bothers me.

Myotis sodalis

Myotis sodalis, or the Indiana Bat, is an endangered species. Some people may not be as upset about this as they ought, claiming that it can harbor diseases such as histoplasmosis or rabies. Well, so can we, and it’s not the bats’ fault nobody goes around and gives them rabies vaccinations. Myotis is, like all bats, nocturnal, and is about the size of a mouse. Females of the species have larger forearms than the males, and this tells us absolutely nothing except that somebody has far too much time on their hands. In summer, said females and their young live under loose tree bark, and nobody’s quite sure where the males go. I have great difficulty with the rationale behind the idea that anyone would care.

Hyemoschus aquaticus

Hyemoschus aquaticus, or the African Chevrotain, is a mammal which greatly resembles a deer, aside from one minor difference: it is about the size of a rabbit. The chevrotain is herbivorous, though it occasionally experiments with eating insects and even small mammals. This could be considered cannibalism, because mammals don’t get a lot smaller than the chevrotain. The males, unlike deer, do not have antlers on their heads; they have them in their mouths. Well, not exactly; they have sharp tusks, which extend beyond their lower lips which is quite sensible since biting one’s lip must be much more painful when it’s done with a sharp tusk. The chevrotain has stripes and spots covering its body which are intended to camouflage it in the forest but completely fail because it is, quote, “avidly hunted by humans.” It has a four-chambered ruminating stomach for consumption of low-nutrient plant material, and one can’t help but wonder how it makes room for a brain with so many stomachs in so small a body. Perhaps it doesn’t.