it’s been over three decades and I still haven’t the foggiest idea what Gumby is supposed to be — a fact made even more distressing by the intrusion, into what once I thought must be some alien universe, of his fucking horse, which I know to be real, or at least, recognizable, as a bridge between our worlds. Plus, to further confuse things, the pliable green slice of rubber speaks a damn fine English, in a pitiable falsetto, sure, but still: we share a language, he and I — and somehow I know he’s a he, even though he prances around naked as a Dago on the Italian Riviera, a frightening absence where his Gumby goody bag should be, his flat green groin aping the smooth banality of a freshly-plucked granny smith apple.
Could be he’s some sort of angel, I guess — but for the life of me, I can’t understand why an angel would need a rubber horse, or why God would have any need of an angel with a squared-off head and the complexion of a débutante whose tongue has just met its first excited penis. Unless the Manicheans were on to something — which, given Ryan Seacrest’s success, is increasingly likely.
— None of which makes a speck of difference now that my English muffin is done toasting. Manichean or not, God distilled is but life shorn of its vanity and reduced to the pedestrian pleasures of spreading raspberry preserves into warm multigrain bread divets, and scratching oneself in dirty places that are in desperate need of thorough scratching. Which, in my case, is what got me to thinking about the soulless anti-Hedonism of poor dumb sackless Gumby in the first place.
And another thing —
Granny Smith apples make some fine pie.
his flat green groin aping the smooth banality of a polished granny smith apple.
Aping groins and grannies! You can’t get that anywhere but here.
*off to find the tip jar!*
“Aping groins and grannies,” makes a fine epithet, too. Or a band name.
When I was a very little girl, I used to be fascinated by Gumby’s crotch, because the wire armature rubber toys my mother bought me, though they would first snap at the arms, tore in his smooth granny-smith area first. Gumby’s insides! I hoped I did not look like that, but somehow, knew I did.
The words “granny” and “penis” should not come closer than eight paragraphs of one another.
I love that.
– Since we’re on the subject of SarahW’s delightfully imaginary insides, something that occured somewhere along the line is the fact that the good green rubbery Gumby never seemed to have a girfriend. I’m not sure if therein lies a sort of a existential lack of need for a goodies bag, but if not he might actually have been bi. All of which leads to:
The alternative, of course
we would hope involves not his horse
For that sort of sexual symphony
Would ‘ner be spoke of
in polite company
Didn’t ‘Gumby’s Crotch’ sign with Relapse Records?
See? Now this is the kind of garbage that conservatives should be peddling to the MASSES!
To Professors Cancerious, Pokey (catch the undertone there, if you will) is the vehicle and the act of insatiable patriarchal domination (with not-insignificant snorting equine overtones, natch) of the Other.
And to think that such collegiate perception can allegorize today what innocently only plied the airwaves then (an era that saw a personal copy of King’s letter warm and fragrant off the mimeograph for the first time).
Since you visibly struggle with the term, that people, is nuance.
It’s also not unlike the garbage progressives peddle to the masses.
and another thing
freshly-plucked granny smith apple.
maybe I read too much into your choice of “plucked” instead of “picked” but what came to mind was a bit from a Bill Cosby routine about the birth of his first child wherein during his wife’s pregnancy he had boasted to family and friends that the baby was sure to be a son …
and as he’s busy changing the diaper on his newborn daughter, Grandpa Cosby leans over his shoulder and intones ..
“seems you forgot to put the stem in that apple, son.”
Maybe Gumby was the first transexual on television and we didn’t even know it
Sounds like Hank Moody has some serious competition.
ell-oh-ell.
It is somewhat disturbing that a Google search on various keywords and combinations thereof from this post resulted in scads (metric measure) of sites, but not this one.
T&T
“the pliable green slice of rubber speaks a damn fine English, in a pitiable falsetto, sure, but still:”
It’s not easy being green.
T&T: the Google directory isn’t real-time. Stuff doesn’t go in there until their robots crawl the site.
Try again tomorrow or the next day.
“the complexion of a débutante who’s tongue has just met its first excited penis”
I’m speechless. And I mean that in a good way (awestruck).
Shouldn’t that be “whose tongue”?
{/grammar Nazi}
{/yeah, yeah, Godwin’s Law}
I hit the tip jar as well. Now you can go get some more muffins, and butter, and maybe a six-pack of MGD and something for the kid.
Or, you know, two six-packs of MGD.
So everybody, tip the darned host! :) Beer isn’t cheap, and you don’t think posts like this come from sober people!?!
– Striving mightily to avoid the imagery of SarahW’s insides, and thereby risking the loss of my Hyper-Man card, it occurs that the good green Gumby, lacking any visible happy package, never evidenced a girl type friend that I can recall, which needs must raise the potential that he may have been alternately inclined thusly:
We could for instance ask of course,
owing to the close proximity of his horse
Thou ‘nere such potential sexual symphony,
Sould we discuss in such polite company
Whom was the doer, and whom the do-ee
with no man tool, a rubbery mystery
?
Jeff –
Shows have theme songs for a *reason*.
Gumby!
He was once a little green slab of clay. Gumby!
You should see what Gumby can do today. Gumby!
He can walk into any book, with his pony pal Pokey, too.
If you’ve got a heart then Gumby’s a part of you.
Clay, not rubber. And, apparently, there was some creator involved.
Make of that what you will, unless Gumby willed his asexual self to power.
Remember that one episode, where Gumby turns himself into hundreds of teeny little piano playing Gumbies? That was awesome.
The filmed Gumby was clay, but the meatspace Gumby was rubber. Which one counts as the “real” Gumby is an interesting philosophical question. You could punt to some Platonic ideal Gumby which exists only in the mind, take refuge in solipsism, or perhaps even approach the issue from a pomo standpoint.
And, apparently, there was some creator involved.
If we go with the clay hypothesis, Rabbi Loew of Prague looks like a likely candidate.
If it’s rubber, I’d give the nod to the team which later went on to create the RealDoll (Note: Not safe for work. Also note that they’ve addressed some of the anatomical shortcomings which provoked psychological distress in Jeff and SarahW. Whether those modifications actually succeeded in making the things less disturbing is, of course, open to debate).
I’m Gumby Damnit!!
raw existentialism, that.
Yeah! And how does he do that sliding along on one foot thing, anyway? That shit’s just weird, man…
Isn’t Gumby the perfect metaphor for those who argue that it’s perfectly alright for an American university to invite Amadasahatter to speak and perfectly okay for an American university to bar Larry Summers from speaking? I mean! It takes the flexibility of Gumby to tie oneself in such intellectual knots. And the lack of balls probably helps too.
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