One brick is not a wall. Unless you’re an ant, and then it’s not only a wall, it’s a building—a building that has no doors, windows, or people in the form of managers that I’d like to smash in the face with a building (or a brick).
A brick could be used to control whole populations of people. Just get a good looking person, like a news anchor, to give it out to the masses and say soothing things with a straight face and all will be OK and the system will continue on as centrally planned.
A brick could be used like a fleeglebeegle, which in turn could be used like a zoopkatofka, which itself could be used like a Wexlybexter Device (the one with the hand crank, not the one with the foot peddles). Gosh, I hope I clarified at least one thing for you.
A brick could be used to knock out the tooth of a giant, and then used as a replacement for that very tooth it knocked out. I’ll tell you what, you knock it out, and I’ll put the new one back in—and I’ll charge a fee for both transactions.
I have to put up a wall to put up with him. Not an invisible, metaphoric emotional wall, but a wall made of bricks. Those bricks could be used to keep out his bullshit. Bricks could transform him from friend into neighbor, and I think that’s pretty special.
A brick could be used as a time travel device. I didn’t say it would work well, and you’d say it didn’t work at all, but I’d reply that you probably weren’t using it right. A brick is so complicated that it’s incredibly simple.
A brick could be used to stop time. I did it once at my uncle’s house, and I nearly wrecked the universe. He wanted to spank me, but decided not to, because he was afraid it would come off as pedophilia to all the viewers who were watching in mainland China.
A brick could be used to make the world safer for our children. Well, not our children, as I don't actually have any kids—but certainly your children. Skeptical? A brick could better protect your children than all the Federal government agencies combined.
A brick could be used to separate two types of people. On the left is a guy who loves my writing, and on the right is a girl who loves my writing. Now I love both people, but I love the girl in an entirely different way—the kind of way that involves a blanket.
A brick could be strapped to the back of a pet gerbil, to teach it how to swim. That’s how I learned to swim. Grandpa glued a gerbil to my back, dropped me off in the middle of Lake Erie, and told me he expected both of us back for dinner the following night.
A brick could be carried to the beach. You can bring your laptop or tablet and work from anywhere in the world, but when you get that brick in the sand, you’re symbolically saying, “This is my building—and my office has the best possible view.”
A blanket could be used to make magical music. And no, I’m not talking about sex and wailing orgasms, you pervert. That’s my sister you’re thinking about. And it’s particularly disgusting and disturbing because I don’t even have a sister.
A blanket could be used as a screen to project animated bedtime stories onto, and also a place to project your fears about society not being accepting of adults who watch movies directed at an audience of four-year-olds. Trust me, I’ve been there—26 years ago.
A brick could be held in one hand, and a stack of dollar bills in the other, to illustrate the difference in weight between the real and the imaginary. The imaginary only weighs more when you believe in it, and then once you stop believing in it, it weighs next to nothing.
A blanket could be used to keep people warm. But take it from me: you want to freeze those dead bodies as soon as they’re cold and lifeless, because you don’t want the bodies staying warm and decomposing while you’re looking for a place to dispose of them.
