Doggy Paddling in the Kiddie Pool of Madness, or, "What Downton Abbey Character am I?"

I have never watched an episode of Downton Abbey. I don’t want that statement to be read as snooty, or holier-than-thou-- I’ve never heard a bad word said about the show and quite a lot of my good friends thoroughly enjoy it, I simply have never gotten around to watching it because I’m always doing sex/kickflips probably.

Buzzfeed, on the other hand, I am quite certain I am holier than. Not that I think I’m special for that- a lot is holier than Buzzfeed. Their lists are probably conjured up in some satanic bacchanal, a druid gleefully mixing together St. Jon’s Wort and pig hymens in a pestle while patients liberated from the Really Upsetting Ward of the local mental hospital etch cuneiform into the walls of the cave they dance in (cuneiform that the Elder Ones presumably translate into the 29 Reasons We Fell In Love With Tom Hiddleston In 2013). 

So was it out of spite or a scientific curiosity that I decided to take the “Which ‘Downton Abbey’ Character Are You” quiz?

“Hahaha! Quizzes are hilarious.”

Oh good! It’s a LOL quiz. I was worried.

The first question beckoned me to “pick a color” from this bizarre palate. Not my favorite color, though-- “a color.” For any reason. One option struck me as strange, though: rather than a standard blue, the good folks at Buzzfeed had presented me with the blue that wifebeaters turn into when washed with a welcome mat, the blue that Van Gogh would use were he commissioned to paint a Boohbah’s nightmare. 

The urge to ascribe that shade to an unknown character was powerful, so I moused over to the “”””””””””””””blue,”””””””””””””””” selected it, and merrily scrolled down to the second question: “Pick a Movie.”

“Hahahahahaha I’m totally picking Must Love Dogs,” I said, picking Must Love Dogs. My curiosity, once at a gentle simmer, was beginning to froth. The character I was to end up with loves both the filmography of John Cusack and the color of Smurf cum-- LOL QUIZ indeed. 

Oh, fuck yeah.

Four questions in, and I could feel the Madness that Brews in the Id beginning to take hold. Why, to discover what character you would be in a show that takes place in post-Edwardian England, would you have to choose what quote your twitter bio would be? In fact, the only question in this quiz that deals with with something these characters could conceivably encounter was the “pick a color” one (and even then I picked a shade of blue that, in 19fucking11, had probably never been seen outside of freezer-burned turtle soup). 

Maybe it was this maddened state I found myself in, but I picked the option that read “I’m always a failure in this family.” But don’t worry: if there’s one other thing I knew about whatever character I got, it’s that they get knocked down, but they’ll get up again.

I needed to get out. Between taking the quiz and writing this missive, I had been staring at a Buzzfeed screen for two hours, which is one hour and fifty-eight more minutes than any human should be forced to endure the inanity of this website. I knew a guy whose ring finger had fallen off after he read The 30 Most Hilarious Autocorrect Struggles Ever, and I was determined that my fate would not echo his. 

It was with this mindset that I picked the grizzly bear: huge. Powerful. As pure a force of will as any in the animal kingdom. A beast whose lungs wouldn’t collapse midway through “19 Pinterest Projects Ain’t Nobody Got Time For.” A creature far better than I.

I was through the fucking looking glass. I picked “Restoration Hardware,” not because I knew what Restoration Hardware was (I totally didn’t), but because, based on name alone, it seemed the place most likely to sell me the tools I needed to repair my swollen, whinging brain. I had but one question to go, however, and I didn’t come this far to be defeated. 

I reminded myself of how far I had come: was Chumbawamba’s rallying anthem for naught? Would the grizzly bear allow a question such as this to break him? I had no way of knowing, but my gut told me “probably not?” My inner cheerleading was mostly for naught, however. It was as if Virgil had brought me to the 9th circle of hell before tearing off on a moped, leaving me to play steak-knife badminton with Mussolini and the Marquis de Sade. I steeled myself and moved on to the final question.

We are the hollow men

   We are the stuffed men

   Leaning together

   Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

   Our dried voices, when

   We whisper together

   Are quiet and meaningless

   As wind in dry grass

   Or rats' feet over broken glass

   In our dry cellar

Oh yeah! I can totally see that.