Monday’s Person I Want To Be

15 Jun

This Monday, as I find myself surrounded by an increasingly wacky bunch of well-meaning fruit loops, I find that more than anything, I want to emulate the cool head, deadpan sensibility, zero-bullshit demeanor of the one and only, Private Investigator Emerson Cod.

Emerson is on my mind because this weekend marked the airing of the last episode of Pushing Daisies ever (sniff), and while there were plenty of things that I liked about that show, Emerson was the thing that held it all together.  Whimsical, snappy, and beautiful-looking though it may have been, Daisies was also saddled with a built-in tendency to go off the rails into twee-ville, with scenes featuring Ned and Chuck in particular constantly running the risk of becoming waaaay too cute and “charming,” at least for me.

Fortunately, we could always count on the gruff and vulgar Cod (played by Chi McBride, who needs a new show, stat) to even things out.  Whenever the two romantic leads would start to lose me with their goo-goo eyes, Emerson was there to roll his, bringing things back down to earth in hilarious fashion.  A choice assortment of quotes:

Ned: It’s kind of a random proximity thing.
Emerson: Bitch, I was in proximity!

Olive: Yesterday, a farrier named Lucas Shoemaker was found dead. Trampled.
Emerson: Why should I care about a dude that sells fur coats?
Olive: Not a furrier, a farrier. *Heir*.
Emerson: Fair-rier?
Olive: It’s a blacksmith. Puts shoes on horses.
Emerson: Don’t try to act like that’s a word everybody knows.

Olive: Maybe John Joseph faked his death. People do that all the time.
Emerson: No, they don’t.

And of course:

Emerson: Just because there’s vodka in my freezer doesn’t mean I need to drink it. Wait… yes it does.

So while I didn’t love the final episodes (it was too bad that they didn’t know the plug was getting pulled), I still appreciated getting to spend a little bit more time watching this show, and I hope that all of the actors find success elsewhere in the near future. For his valiant efforts grounding a show with its head so far up in the clouds it threatened to float away, Chi McBride deserves some sort of medal of deadpan-valor or something.  Cheers, Emerson. Keep up the knitting, man.


I'll read a pop-up book in your honor.

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