Look, I know you’re enamored of a woman who’s practically perfect in every way, and I want you to know that I can’t measure up to that.
But, you know, neither can you. I mean, Bert! She’s practically perfect in every way. Can you imagine having to put up with that every day?
“Mary, did you leave your dirty socks in the living room?”
“You know very well I didn’t, Bert, because I’m practically perfect in every way. If there are dirty socks in the living room, they’re either yours, or they belong to that little hussy from down the way!”
I know that was a pretty specific example, but lately people have been leaving their dirty socks in my living room and I’d really like them to knock it off, sweetheart, I know you read this blog and Mommy loves you, but please pick up your socks.
Anyway, because Mary Poppins is practically perfect in every way and also looks like a young Julie Andrews, I really don’t blame you for loving her. I also love her, and would like to invite you two over for dinner on my ceiling, except imagine that “dinner on my ceiling” is a euphemism, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
… I think I’ve kind of lost my train of thought here, Bert.
What I’m trying to say is that Mary Poppins is a nearly perfect human being, and someone like that could never love a mere mortal like you (hah! As if the man who sings Chim Chim Cheree, the best Disney song EVER, is a mere mortal!), but do you know who could, Bert? I could! I could love you like mad. In fact, I already do.
So let’s get married, and you could sweep chimneys, or paint sidewalks, or panhandle, or whatever it is you do for a living, and at night? … We’d dance.