Listmania

There is a bug going around. It is a bee in my belfry. "Well you don't want it to be," whisper whisper, "just a funny list."

It's funnydamental. Oh, excuse me, you're writing? Say that's practically just a list. And if it is a list, it had better have three items and the third one had best be hilarious.

And why not? Better a funny list than a sad list. There are some crazy sad lists, in the history of history. What do you expect, Harper's Index? I don't have access to that kind of information. Plus I'm no good with numbers. Give me a tray of watercolors and a brush and paper, and some water, any day. All day every day.

Lists presume a natural order of things. They imply categories. Ontology. Shelves. Or else it's a poem.

Here is one list.

1. Todd
2. Todd
3. Spaghetty

Usually, not a very serious poem (I combine my shopping and shit lists). See, it's people making the lists. There is no precedent for listmaking; neither animals nor gods (Santa Claus excepted) make lists. Lists are easy funny; they're just a way to sort things out, and it's the natural state of things to be assorted. The Planters Company knows that. "You need chaos in your soul in order to give birth to a dancing star," it says on the label, "Eat dees nuts."

So now there's a list. And very funny people are on it, but it's not funny at all. I don't want it to get any longer.

Pictures