Well, I've been thinking about flippancy. And if you, gentle reader, are among the number of my better aquaintances, you probably know what I've been thinking about it.
I don't like it.
So, instead of boring you all with a long rant on the subject, I thought I'd prove the point of my essay above and provide you with a poem about it instead. The poem gets the job done much better than the rant would have.
So here it is! Enjoy-- it's one of my favoritey favorites, written by Wislawa Szymborska, one of my favoritey favorite poets.
Don't take jesters into outer space,
that's my advice.
Fourteen lifeless planets,
a few comets, two stars.
By the time you take off for the third star,
your jesters will be out of humor.
The cosmos is what it is--
Your jesters will never forgive it.
Nothing will make them happy:
not time (too immemorial),
not beauty (no flaws),
not gravity (no use for levity).
While others drop their jaws in awe,
the jesters will just yawn.
En route to the fourth star
things will only get worse.
disrupted sleep and equilibrium,
Remember that crow with the cheese in its beak, the fly droppings on His Majesty's portrait,
the monkey in the steaming bath--
now that was living.
They'll take Thursday over infinity anyday.
Out of tune suits them better than the music of the spheres.
They're happiest in the cracks
between theory and practice,
cause and effect.
But this is Space, not Earth: everything's a perfect fit.
On the thirtieth planet
(with an eye to its impeccable desolation)
they'll refuse even to leave their cubicles:
"My head aches," they'll complain. "I stubbed my toe."
What a waste. What a disgrace.
So much good money lost in outer space.