If a blanket could be used to keep one person warm, then it stands to reason that all the blankets in the world are to blame for global warming, and I think our political leaders, with all their wisdom, should confiscate all blankets and burn them. The cure for Global Warming is to start a massive bonfire, and while the earth will surely get warmer in the short term, in the end we’ll all be like Keynes’ corpse anyway, so what’s it really matter?
A brick could be used to help you to become a karate master, like I am. It’s easy to punch the brick and break it, but can you punch a brick, shatter it, and then using only your mind repiece the brick back together into one cohesive unit—and do it all faster than the shutter of the fastest camera can witness? Well, I can. You’ll have to see it to believe it, but since the human eye can’t actually visually absorb it, you’ll have to just take my word for it.
A brick and a blanket walk into a bar, and the bartender turns and says, “What can I get you started with?” Before they could reply, a Finnish guy said, “I’ll take a brick in a blanket, hold the ice.” What the bartender started, the Finnish guy finished, and the brick and the blanket thought they’d better to drink elsewhere. * A brick in a blanket: very simple—1/6th of a Twizzler dropped in a glass of vodka, with a blanket of Grenadine on top.
Weird how I can feel so frail and tiny sometimes, and other times so brave and bold and reckless and free, and . . . Does everybody feel the same? When people get grown-up, do they always feel grown-up and sensible and sorted out and . . . And do I want to feel grown-up? Do I want to stop feeling . . . paradoxical, nonsensical? Do I want to stop being crackers? Do I want to be destrangified? O yes, sometimes I want nothing more - but it only lasts a moment, then O I want to be the strangest and crakerest of everybody.
A blanket could be used to represent a thing. Now this thing is curious, because it represents an idea. This idea is called sleep, and as far as ideathings go, it’s about as relaxing as it gets. Ideas within sleep are called dreams, and they are like bricks, only not real and considerably lighter and less damaging as they bounce off your skull. So if a dream is an ideaideathing, then a dream about a blanket would be an ideathingideathing, and thinking about that makes me want to crack my brainbone with a brick.
A brick could be used to stop a train. But I’ve got a better way to stop a speeding train. Stand firmly on the tracks, stare down the oncoming train, and boldly whisper, “Stop” as you hold out a stiff arm and just stand there. It might feel like you’re waiting your whole life for that train to stop, and quite possibly you will wait your whole life for that train to stop. But from that point your life expectancy has decreased to just a few seconds, so you won’t be waiting very long at all.
A brick is a duplicate. It is a physical copy of the idea for a brick. And what’s the big idea? A brick represents unity, a notion of hey, let’s build something together. Like a house, for example. And after you help me build my house, I’ll use a leftover brick and smash you over the skull so that not only will I not have to pay you for your labor, but I won’t have to pay the butcher for meat, because with your sturdy body, I’m sure I’ll have enough food to feed my family for a year.
A brick and a blanket could be used as characters in a story full of clever dialogue, such as: Brick: I checked everywhere, and it’s not where I last left it. Did you touch my penis sandwich? Blanket: What? Eww no, why would I touch your penis sandwich? Brick: Well, would it make you more comfortable if I put on some condiments and rolled on a condom? Blanket: Dude, or lady, whatever you are. I’m not gay—or straight. I’m not even bisexual. I’m a blanket, and I’m asexual. I’m also not hungry now.
Wendy’s house, unlike many in Cape Breton, had three floors, along with a basement and attic. Aside from Wendy’s bedroom, there was a laundry room. The dirty water in the sink would rush from the washer hose, bubbling up, threatening to overflow, but it never did. Next-door was a motel with a neon sign that read in turquoise and pink, “We have the best rates in town!”, but the ‘E’ in ‘rates’ kept flickering on and off day and night so that every few seconds it would switch to, “We have the best rats in town!
A brick could have been used as a father figure in place of my dad when I was growing up, because a brick may be dumb, but at least it isn’t dumb and interfering in its absence. By not being a part of my life, my dad became a big part of my life, because my thoughts were influenced by his image and infused with fantasy as I attempted to alter the reality that he wanted little to do with me. And what else would you call not wanting to be a part of your son’s life but dumb? So this Father’s Day, I’m drinking to the dad I never had—a brick.
A brick could be attached to a parachute and tossed out of an airplane, to test if it opens up properly. Well, the good news is the parachute worked as planned, but the bad news is the only other parachute on board is strapped to my back, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to return to your seat, buckle up, and assume the crash position. And while it may not be as useful as a functioning parachute, here’s a Rosary to aid you in your prayers. Also, before I jump out of the plane, I just remembered that I owe you a lot of money. Can I write you a check?
A brick could be used as gift for the man who has everything. Here’s a tip: that man doesn’t have everything, because I just stole his wallet. But I can’t very well give him a gift of something I’ve just grifted. So while he’s pondering the meaning of the brick as a present, I’m off spending his money. It’s win-win for both of us. And by both of us I mean me and you, not me and him, because naturally you’ll be my accomplice, my partner, and as such you’re entitled to half. Of half. But since I’m paying you 25%, you’re paying for dinner.
Through the miracle of science, or divine intervention, a brick could be made soft, like Jell-O, and a blanket could be made rigid, like the laws regarding the speed limit, as interpreted by the cop who pulled me over last night. Come on, Officer Dogood—97 in a 30 mile an hour zone is not egregious. It’s not like I was speeding with no lights on while wearing a blindfold and blasting Lady Gaga from my radio to mask the sound of pounding fists from a kidnapping victim I had tied up in my trunk. Now that is something that would merit a stiff penalty, like a parking ticket, or maybe a stern warning.
Take off your damned wrapper! The old buffer ordered, looking intensely at her lower part. Comfort was on her knees, rubbing the old man's dirty feet. All her plea and tears continually worsen the whole matter. I want to do you harder cos you gonna be fucked by other folks who needs a large hole, said the man, moving towards her. Comfort struggled with all her feminine might, but the old masculine but old man ripped her wrapper and slapped her on the face. Lie here, Lie here! I'm gonna do what your old man did to your mama and its gonna sweet you. She screamed as the man's organ prick her glory hole like a sharp needle.
A biologist with a history of tooth decay invents a symbiotic microbe which lives in the human mouth and feeds by cleaning our teeth. It secreted calcium, which is poisonous to it, controlling its growth and preventing it from eating the teeth themselves. So this guy, he wants to spread the thing to the world, but it'd never fly, FDA and human squeamishness and all, so he becomes a party animal. He throws wild partys at the lab, kisses female grad students, where's, babies. He backwashes in sodas left on tables. He bums drags of cigarettes. He grants humanity eternally clean and healthy teeth but dies of a terrible cocktail of STDs.
