“It has the sensitivity of a cactus, the ingenuity of a square wheel, and the integrity of a CEO,” comments one movie critic on the newly released Godsend. While the quote belongs to him, the italics are entirely mine, gentle reader, as is the sheer indignation. It’s no secret that critics often craft catchy one-liners aplenty, sowing them in their reviews in hopes of appearing on DVD liners.
When these one-liners seek to demolish the good name of innocent citizens, however, one must draw a line in the sand. For starters, I have tons of integrity. Muse and I were shopping one evening when the loudspeaker announced a blue-light special on integrity, which compelled us to stock up right then and there. We proceeded to buy, in Costcoesque bulk, enough integrity to last the rest of our lives. And shit, they even threw in a free toothbrush.
I’ve since been using the integrity on all the important things in life, such as the numerous degrees I’ve earned and the subsequent advice I’ve dispensed. Now, though, is not the time to dispense advice or lecture on the finer things in life. Now is the time to dilute vitriol and defend one’s honor.
First of all, Wes, how exactly did you educate yourself on the “sensitivity of a cactus”? Until today, I’ve been living in blissful ignorance, believing–and still hoping, actually–that cacti lacked the sentience to reflect on themselves and the world. I guess that’s not the case, considering our potted friends apparently weep sweet, hot tears when we talk to them too harshly.
Or perhaps you can comment on the sensitivity of cacti because you are a cactus, a sad, dried out husk with one too many pricks. Oh, cha-ching! It burns, IT BURNS, MY SCATHING REBUTTAL BURNS LIKE “THE INGENUITY OF A SQUARE WHEEL” DOUSED IN GASOLINE AND SET ON FIRE!
I think I’m going to use that toothbrush now.
I’m looking over our conversation yesterday, gentle reader, and what seemed hearty at the time–five whole words with a link thrown in–now seems pitifully lacking. After all, do we not gather here to rant? Are we here to trade links and swap the stories of others or, dare I make the suggestion, are we here to complain? We doth protest not enough, and I can only conclude that I was either puffing the oregano yesterday or hitting the parsley. Hard.
The silence stops now. A bird shat on one of my co-workers yesterday as we wended our way to lunch, which perfectly illustrates the point I’m about to unfold. I mean really, at the end of the day, isn’t injustice simply the Pigeon of Evil taking to the skies and dropping big, steamy globs of wrongdoing on your person? Let me tell you what’s on my mind. You can speak afterward, though I can’t guarantee I’ll listen to you.
The chair I’m sitting on right this moment? I feel like it’s sitting on me. It’s one of those leather “executive” chairs, and sometime last week I spent a glorious two hours assembling the stupid thing. Since when did people start imposing hierarchies on chairs, I wonder? Whether your chair costs a thousand dollars or thirty-five dollars, it shoulders the same noble burden in the end: to serve as a receptacle for your ass.
This particular ass receptacle, however, also received a modest amount of blood, sweat, and tears. The instructions clearly told me assembly would involve only an allen wrench and a few screws, but it sure as heck didn’t tell me about cursing over stripped screws or wrestling the chair to the ground. It’s like someone from Ikea handed me an allen wrench and said, “Here, this is all you need. To stab yourself.”
Now that all the dust has cleared, I can look forward to months of bad posture and skanky leather smell. Apparently you can take injustice sitting down, and I weep for the cow that gave its life to make my chair.
Nibble on this, gentle reader.