I'm a straw man

Coming to you with my mind slowed,
Bad thinking, I believe it showed,
And when you get it, you got nothing,
Yes, worry, 'cause I'm dumbing,

I'm a straw man
I'm a straw
I'm a straw man (dumb on!)
I'm a straw man...

What did I ever do to you? Surely it wasn’t something I said. I can’t say anything, now can I? Did I scare away a potential life partner impolitely and aggressively perched on my arm? You know the type. Constantly chirping, constantly quoting Poe, constantly defecating (birdseed does wonders on the gastrointestinal system) in lieu of engaging in actual, albeit one-sided conversation. I’m right here and yet, their song is always aimed at others.

What is it? No good? Does this hit too close to home? You don’t think you’re guilty, do you? The guilty ones never do, do they? No, no they don’t. Well, let me tell you, pal: the verdict is in. You’re part of the problem. You won’t stop berating me, making me feel less than, worthless, and insignificant when compared to other fully-animated individuals. When you say my arguments are bad, I say you’re bad. I bet they don’t teach logic like that at the University of Harvard?

People say to me all the time, “you have no brain.” It’s a passing comment, one that’s almost seen as a compliment. With everything going on in the world, being stupid might be a nice change of pace. But it’s not nice. I don’t have the mental equipment to deal with such a barb. I'm not simply dumb. I'm also quite naïve.

It’s hurtful to hear those words for decades on end. I didn’t choose my lot in life – brainless and joyless, arms flapping in the wind. My best friend is a stalk of sweet corn, who's curiously MIA each and every winter. I'm the plaything of insolent farm boys. The target of archery-loving farm girls.

Just because I lack a brain doesn’t mean I’m a total moron, okay? I know the difference between gawking and ogling. One time I’d like to be ogled. Instead it’s always, “sheesh, they still have those?” Don’t worry about me though. I get by all right. I read. Maybe not read, but I watch TV. Maybe not TV, but I follow cloud formations, attuned to their movements and propensity for dramatic irony. Trust me, a vaporous Cumulus Nimbus before a big storm (spoiler alert) is better than Breaking Bad. Yet I don’t get an umbrella or a raincoat when it rains. Just a stupid hat that barely covers my face. Why bother? I’m not real, right?  

“Why don’t you quit?” And do what exactly? Work at the post office sorting mail? Make decorative baskets out of my delicately woven intestinal tract? I can’t do that. Life isn’t an extended version of arts and crafts for somewhat-talented campers.

“Must be rough. With all those crows living in fear of you.” My relationship with birds is another major misconception. Yes, I have a problem with some members of the crow population. But that’s on them. Several of my dearest friends are crows. I didn’t ask the others to be scared of me. Fear is borne out of ignorance - something I know something about. But you’ll never hear me say a bad word about a seagull, pigeon or bald eagle, our glorious national bird.

Others will say, “I love snowmen. Don’t you just love snowmen?” What they don’t understand, what they can’t possibly realize is how a little ol’ statement like this pains me so. I didn’t go to college but I know a micro-aggression when I hear one. I can’t be a snowman. I can’t ever be a snowman. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much frozen precipitation accumulates on my wispy limbs, I will always be a straw man. For your amusement and ridicule. Where’s my carrot nose? 

“Automation is a helluva thing, huh?” I don’t get paid, okay? I get to live off the land and do what I love. But why threaten my livelihood? There’s going to come a time in this country when robots will scare crows - it's inevitable. After a few years people will come to understand all they’ve sacrificed to make a buck. The glare of robot metal is blinding when reflecting a powerful farm sun. That just doesn’t happen with straw.  

My friend Dante is always telling me, “you gotta go to Burning Man, man.” I bet. However, I don’t know how I feel about an event with such a strange payoff. Who’s the man and why are we burning him? Naturally, part of me wants to be burned, ya know, for the attention. And another part of me wants to burn. Isn’t this what we do to our effigies? We burn them. Why can’t we toss water balloons or something far less dangerous. What do I know? I'm a mindless dope.  

Do you realize that I’ve never even been burned in effigy? A torched straw man is always representing someone or something else. It’s amazing how thoughtless and inconsiderate torch-carrying mobs can be. I’d like to actually be the symbol I represent.

So...do I remind you of anyone? Someone who was totally selfless, idealistic and partial to wizardry? Steve Jobs is a good first guess, but no, I’m not the next Saint Turtleneck. I have a lot in common with someone else. Will you look at arms? They’re not down, are they? I’m "messianic." And if Musk and company have their way I might be reincarnated soon. Frankly, I’ve been up here for what feels like an eternity. Take a guess.