Review #41

Shiny Green Bugs

Story by Alan Turner

Review by Ray




I went to a spoken word competition today. Some of you might remember I tend to dislike poetry, so naturally, my sister is a poet. She's alright and many of the people there were quite talented, but there aren't many ways to read Shiny Green Bugs that make it sound good.


The host of the website I found this on warned, “Please respect the publication rights of the original authors, or I'll have to visit your office with my favorite Russian SKS.” Well, bring it the fuck on, just know what you’re getting into. I do feel like some credibility went out the window when the page was titled Bad Poems.

There are many kinds of little bugs.

That’s quite the understatement, have you ever heard of the amazon? There are more kinds of little bugs than we’ll ever know.

Shiny green ones are the best.

False, the hickory horned devil caterpillar is the best.

 

I know it’s green, but it’s not shiny and I feel like the poet had beatles in mind.

 

Iridescent exoskeletons

Are prettier than the rest.

Well scorpions don’t like you either.

Sometimes I wonder how it would feel

To have extra arms, and wings!

Well, allow to to tell you mister poet.

 

On the surface, the arm thing sounds pretty useful; better athletic ability, skilled multitasking, not to mention the sex positions you could invent. But, there are reasons we don’t typically have more than two. One reason comes down to how the brain would react if you suddenly started sprouting limbs. Not only would they likely be uncoordinated, but the brain wouldn’t know what to do with incoming stimuli either. Some people have this condition with limbs they were born with, and it’s not uncommon to get the foreign feeling section of the body amputated. But whatever, say your brain was ready for the new arms. Then there’s the issue of when you’re not using them; they would get in the way, constantly. They don’t just disappear.

 

Now onto the wings, which make the arms look like a good choice. There are a few reasons we’ve never seen anyone do what Icarus and Daedalus are doing up there. Birds can fly and their wings aren’t too big, but because of the cube square law, ours would have to be considerably larger; over fifteen feet, and those are minimalist estimates. Combine that with a few extra arms, you’re a clumsy mess. Not to mention all of the other restrictions of our human bodies. We have thick bones, which weigh us down and hinder flight but which we need due to, get this, the cube square law. Turns out that’s an important rule of physics, file it next to the second law of thermodynamics. We don’t have the proper muscles for flight either because we’ve never needed them, and with all of this considered, we’d need quite a bit of it. I guess what I’m really trying to say is that I hate this poem, because if this were mentioned in something I like I wouldn’t have bat an eye, but in this case I went off on quite possibly my longest single rant in review so far.

What would I do if I was like that?

Get in the way.

Some wonderful lovely things!

I would fly in to your living room

Excuse me? You shall do no such thing mister poet.

To see what was on the wall.

Not much, but take a look around Warnuts’ bedroom.

I would look for something good to eat

Well you’re not going to find it there, maybe try the kitchen.

My antannae tasting all!

I would fly out to your garden beds

Oh, the garden beds that are covered in a few feet of snow? Good luck freaky insect man.

And check out all your flowers.

Oh, the flowers that don’t grow there because it’s mostly vegetables? Go for it.

Where can I go? I must lay my eggs!

Wait, is this person an actual insect?

For I will be dead in hours!

Whatever abomination or pest you are, the world will carry on without you.

I'd see roses in a pretty hue;

With shoots that are tender and bare

I'd extend my ovipositor,

Deposit my eggs right there.

Behold, the lemon of the insect poet.

They have very short lives, little bugs

But they also have no concern.

Bugs lives are filled with nothing but concern, one after another; it’s what drives them

For with every metamorphisis

They will get another turn.

I think this poet is greatly overestimating the higher thinking abilities of insects.