Egghead: Or, You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone

by Bo Burnham

Why do poets always talk about the ocean’s waves, about their single file march to shore, and yet never talk about my grandmother’s farts, which arrive in time, one after the other, with equal regularity? Are these poets too holy to comment on anything less than nature’s flashiest gestures? Are we going to spend another millennia searching for meaning in sunsets and waterfalls? Or will we finally turn our ear to Grammy’s rump and away from all that pretty stuff, and hear that foul, muted trumpet sing, marking the end of an era?

On the third of June, at a minute past two, where once was a person, a flower now grew. Five daisies arranged on a large outdoor stage in front of a ten-acre pasture of sage. In a changing room, a lily poses. At the DMV, rows of roses. The world was much crueler an hour ago. I’m glad someone decided to give flowers a go.

Alfred You’re a bunny, Alfred. Quit all this “elephant” bullshit. Look at your little bunny ears. Look at your adorable whiskers. Do elephants have little bunny ears? Do they have adorable whiskers? No, they don’t. You can’t just wake up one day and decide to be an elephant, Alfred. The world doesn’t work like that. There are rules, Alfred. And you want to stomp all over them. Get over yourself.

How, may I ask, did you get so you, you beautiful true-to-you doer? I’ve met many today but can honestly say that I’ve never met anyone you-er.

You’re incomparable like a… Shit. Like a…

There’s nothing like a cup of joe, when the morning’s grey and grim and slow, when the streets collide with the world outside, when litter lies where lilies grow. Just drink that smoking cup of black and feel your feelings surging back. Plus, spill a drop and a coffee shop will sprout up from a sidewalk crack!

Lou followed his dreams. Lou followed those things into studios and boxing rings, into clown schools and swimming pools, into plucking little fiddle strings. Lou followed his dreams. Now he’s dirt-poor. He doesn’t have a pillow or bed anymore. So three cheers for Lou, the follower who followed his dreams all the way to the floor!

When I was little, I killed ants with a magnifying glass. And now I’m big. And I worry I’m doing the same thing with you.

Although there’s many different brains, with different stories, different names, different isn’t safe like same, so same makes most take safer aim. Who needs those same old, same old fakes? Today, that same old, lame mold breaks. I’m me! I’m me! Meet me and see what a difference difference makes!

Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, hollow be thy promises and shallow be thy shame. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. On a scale from one to ten, our Lord is totally eleven. Give us this day our daily bread, toasted close to dawn, and forgive us our trespasses as we shoot those who trespass on our lawn, and lead us not into temptation, such as pot or porno, but deliver us from evil (if not delivery, then DiGiorno).

Hey, fireflies! Fly higher, guys! Fly high above this place. Till a sky rise is a wire’s size. Then fly off into space. I catch stupid bugs in jars but you’re not bugs you’re baby stars!

I love you just the way you are but you don’t see you like I do. You shouldn’t try so hard to be perfect. Trust me, perfect should try to be you.

I like that thing you do with your tongue. What do you call it? Speaking? Yeah, I dig it.

No matter our race or color or creed or way of life or species or breed. No matter our height or girth or scent, we all hate Donald because Donald is a fucking dick.

I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever, point is I hanged myself today and I’m still hanging. I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that someone will come home and cut me down but then I keep remembering that if I knew someone like that I wouldn’t be up here. Bit ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read somewhere that, like, anything funny is, in some way, ironic. But I don’t know if it’s funny or not. I don’t think my brain owns “funny,” you know? I feel taller. I like that. I’ve never been away from my shadow for this long. It had always clung to my feet, parting momentarily for a quick dive into the swimming pool. But never for five hours. I like it. There’s three feet of space between my two and the floor. I wanted something this morning. I may be stuck. But at least I’m three feet closer to it.

Hello, my old friend! You silly old clown! How’s that mountain of life you’ve been tumbling down? How’s that little line segment with infinite points? Has the red rust of time been kind to your joints? How’s that worn path of safety? Has it led you astray? What’s that? How am I? Oh, I’m okay.

Little Ashley hung magazine spreads on her wall, after picking the magazines out in the mall. Models and actresses, singers and more, with cleavage and makeup and glamour galore! All of her heroes were finally nearer. Her whole room looked perfect—except for the mirror.

I don’t expect to change your mind with one conversation, only to chip away at it, like a woodpecker on a redwood tree.

Her eyes were like fire. They weren’t red or anything. Not particularly warm, either. They didn’t glow or “appear to glow,” whatever that means. But they had that same strange blend of familiar and miraculous— and they were always nice to look at after a long day of doing things.