“I don’t care if you’re black, white or, as long as we’re on the subject of hue, purple.”
In many circles, and even some squares, most people feel comfortable getting behind a statement like this. Either that or they feel comfortable getting out in front of it. It usually depends on what position the situation calls for. But now’s not the time for an exhaustive assessment of posture. Because if it were, I’d like to go on record as being no slouch. They want us to treat purple people with the same respect afforded everyone else. That’s fine, but I can’t just stand by while the person next to me has the complexion of a squalid plum. Mind you, plums are the best fruit out there, but this sight should concern even the most produce averse.
I for one care about purple people, who they are and how they got into this bind. Like Socrates, I’d start with a few probing questions, but hold the hemlock. Are you all right? Have you seen a doctor this century? Did you rub yourself silly with boiled beetroot or grilled eggplant? Did you bathe in a tub of melted blackberry ice cream? I realize that purple connotes kings and queens, but you’re starting to look more like a rotten, deflated bell pepper than King Henry.
You can’t ignore what's going on here. Cabbage-head is trying to get your attention and you’re reading the funny papers. How you can bother worrying about the upcoming election when geranium-face is withering away right beside you? Is this the most opportune moment to discuss the changes to baseball’s playoff format when lilac-limbs is galloping towards the great hereafter? Why not forget the weather for a second and ask peony express if he’s all right? Now is not the time to pontificate about the greatest streaming options on various media platforms when rhododendron wrists over there is writhing in pain. Forget colorblindness, this is serious stuff.
Penning an elegiac sonnet is a bit premature, seeing as purple prose is in poor taste, too. So just call 9-1-1 to be safe.
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