A brick could be used to tell how hard the wind is blowing. If the wind blows the brick around, I’d get out of there immediately.


My routine is comforting, like a comforter. But a blanket could easily be used to replace my routine, because a comforter is a blanket.


A brick could be used as toilet paper—especially if you just shit a brick. You could shit and wipe your way to a wall of privacy.


A brick could be placed in the trunk of a car manufacturer’s competitor, to increase the odds of decreasing their fuel efficiency.


A blanket could be used to warn your enemy that you are coming—and that you are warm. Where’s the cold war when you need it?


A brick could be used as 1,2, and 4. But not 3. No, 3 is too holy for a brick. 3 is a number so magical it can only be used by a blanket.


A brick could be used as man’s best friend, if you covered it in fur and taught it to bark and shit in your neighbor’s yard. 


I make love like sausage is to bacon as brick is to blanket. Somebody get me some utensils. And some lubrication (not Castrol Motor Oil).


A brick could be used for pressing grapes into wine, and a magician could then cover up that wine with a blanket and turn wine into water.


A brick could be used as a Red Beard Replacement, for those of us who can’t grow facial hair, but desire the respect a beard brings.


A jet may be perfect for breaking the speed of sound, but a brick is designed to break the speed of silence. Just listen to that quietness.


If you’re a struggling artist having money problems just superglue a brick in the middle of a blanket, and call it art. Someone will buy it.

A brick could be laid on a blanket, so the blanket doesn’t blow away. But why would the blanket blow away? I just turned the fan off.


A brick can’t cure cancer. But who knows, maybe a brick combined with a blanket could. I’ll have to ask Dr. Burzynski about it.


A brick could be thrown, like a football, only instead of a wide receiver, I’d recommend sending out a politician to catch your pass.