So I was watching Babe last night, you know, the movie where the pig herds sheep? And I can’t stop thinking about the people in the crowd at the sheep herding competition, who saw the pig herd sheep—I mean, go re-watch the movie, you can see some of these extras are giving the performance of a lifetime, their lives change on their faces—they’ve just seen something truly remarkable, something Truly Remarkable. Like, imagine you’ve been going to sheep herding competitions your whole life; you grew up doing it, your father did it, his father. And now you want your grandson to herd sheep, it’s only right and natural, and so one Sunday you take him to lunch at your favorite diner, and you tell your favorite waitress you don’t need another refill, and then the two of you drive out to the sheep herding competition, and you sit smugly on the benches, knowing exactly what to expect. And then the pig comes out and herds the sheep. It’s almost as if—and you feel crazy for thinking this— the pig is actually talking to the sheep? Your face opens. Your world changes. What sporting event could ever top this? One weekend your grandson invites you to his football game, he never got into herding sheep after all, and that’s fine, because you love him, and he scores the final goal, and the team lifts him up on their shoulders, and the whole time you’re thinking, well, this isn’t as impressive as when I saw that pig herd sheep. It’s merely the truth! You’re proud of your grandson, he’s got a scholarship for the fall, but he’s a human being who speaks English who was been taught, in English, how to score goals. It objectively isn’t as impressive. Nothing is. You used to love the bacon and tomato sandwich at that diner: the bacon was thick, the black pepper was freshly ground, the salt flakes were fat. But it’s not as good as when you saw the pig herd sheep. I don’t think they use freshly ground pepper anymore, you say, to your grandson, I mean, the sandwich is still good but it isn’t—as good as the time we saw the pig, he finishes. He makes eye contact with the waitress. Talking about that pig again, Gary? she asks, dropping the check. You pay the check. You kiss your grandson on his cheek. He leaves for school tomorrow. You promise yourself you will relearn how to be impressed by your life. You will try to see something every day that could, possibly be better than seeing the pig herd sheep. You go to the grocery store. You buy white bread, name brand mayonnaise, and thick cut bacon. You thank God that it is tomato season. You remake the sandwich from the diner, exactly the way you liked it. It isn’t even hard. The sandwich is perfect. You’re impressed by yourself, and by your innate ability to make a punchline of the world right back. You laugh out loud into your empty kitchen.
I wrote “STAND UP ROUTINE” after I listened to 54 hours of a movie podcast in two weeks. Jokes are really hard to write. Poems should have more jokes in them. Is this a persona poem? For the record I do not believe in putting tomatoes on sandwiches. Too wet.
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