disdelusion:
he jumps up. but just a tiny bit. it would be really hypocritical of him if he did the whole performance of jerking away with his arms curled up defensively. he doesn’t do that. sometimes the louder you say something the more sense it makes.
“i’ve never watched a thing with elmo. or like, spongebob.” david is cool about joey’s outburst. but not cool enough to just continue without some martyrdom. “my first dad was a– scientist, he wanted us watching smart stuff only.”
“but i know kermit.” he adds, eager to offer a solution to their problem. david plucks at an invisible banjo and if the first few chords of rainbow connection play in joey’s head, well, that’s the immersion. “they’re… the same family, right?”
This is so sad.
“Sesame Street is highbrow. You can tell your Dr. Dad that.”
A song Joey immediately recognizes as Not-from-Elmo-in-Grouchland twangs in his head. It’s not as disorienting as Joey might’ve expected, a song not of his own mind playing within it. It feels... not relieving, but, like his brain has been stuck in stagnant, lukewarm water for thirty-nine years and it’s suddenly been rehomed and plunged into an icy cool tank. You know, like a goldfish. His brain is a goldfish. And maybe there’s a finger in the water trying to get him to—what?—wiggle? This should feel refreshing but it just feels shocking and bizarre. A deep-rooted part of his brain reflexively (alternatively: combatively?) blares the song Welcome to Grouchland.
Joey’s face looks like a man trying to hear his own thoughts in a small concert hall with two bands trying to play over each other.
“Cool. Ow. Cool.” Talk-shouting like he has headphones on: “No. Kermit is a frog and Elmo is—... What is Elmo? Oh my God? What is Elmo??? He’s red. He’s? What animals are red?” Joey can’t think. Clifford? No. Not a real dog. What color is red again? He can’t. Picture it. With all this. “Foxes? Elmo’s not a fox. I don’t know. He’s. He’s Elmo. He’s just Elmo.”
