A brick could be used as a symbol for the kind of life I’m trying to build. The question now is, what kind of life am I trying to build? Well, I guess I want stability, longevity, and I’d like it two stories, with the second story being fiction, or even pseudo nonfiction, if that makes sense in its nonsensicality.
A brick could be used to keep thieves away from your house. Just set a brick outside your front door, and you won’t need any additional security. Years will go by and nobody will steal the brick. And because the brick won’t get stolen, it’s proof that it deterred thieves from approaching your property.
A brick is like fruitcake. You don’t want to use it up all at once, and in fact, you don’t want to use it up at all. Well, if you won’t use it, then give it to someone who will. Every other Christmas I get the gift of fruitcake—and I think it’s the same loaf that I gave to that person the year before.
A brick could be used to ascertain the truth. And then logically, a non-brick could be used to detect the lie. What kind of things are non-bricks? Well, anything from blankets to lies. So therefore, a lie could be used to detect a lie, and all this logic makes me want to grab a blanket and lie down—and that’s the truth.
A blanket could be bunched up and used as a seat cushion. But I’d rather cut off your buttocks and use that instead. Isn’t it better that I be the one to sit on your fat ass all day? After all, sitting on your ass is all you seem to do now that you’re addicted to high fructose corn syrup and targeted advertisements.
A brick could be used to foretell the future. But I’m the only one alive who knows how to make it work, and my occult knowledge can be rented out to you for $9.99 per minute. Call now, as supplies are limited. (Technically there’s only one future, but there are also as many futures as there are people willing to pay for it.)
A brick could be used to show how patient you are. Somewhere between one brick and a million bricks lies a home. For me, my home is one brick, and I carry it with me wherever I go, because I’m always on the move. Maybe one day, when I’m a wealthy man, I’ll get a second brick and walk around with my mansion in my hands.
A blanket could be used to find the Brick of Truth. Many lies will be layered on the Brick of Truth to try to cover it up, but the blanket will cover up all the lies, thus covering up the cover up and thereby revealing the Brick of Truth. And don’t try to steal the covers, because the blanket will only provide warmth to the Brick of Truth.
A brick could be used to help you become an Olympic swimmer. Tie the brick around your legs and have a friend drop you off someplace, say the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and then simply swim back to shore. By the time you hit the beach, you’ll be able to swim faster than a shark. In fact, you’ll have to if you plan on making it home.
A brick could be used to attract a potential life partner. Yes indeed, and it’s how I met my ex wife. And the only reason she didn’t become my life partner was because I outlived our relationship, despite her numerous attempts to kill me. I’m 31 years old now, so thank God for modern science enabling me to achieve such longevity.
A brick could replace the eagle as the symbol for the United States of America. And why not? A brick just sort of sits there, expecting everything to be built around it; a brick crumbles, much like an empire; and a brick is nonthinking, just like America’s “leadership” in Washington DC—on both sides of the political spectrum.
A brick could be used to commit genocide on a small patch of grass, if you lay the brick down on the lawn and leave it there long enough. But I do not condone this monstrosity of lawntrocity. (Lawn + atrocity—clever, no? OK, no, it’s not so clever. To have any lawngevity as a writer, I’ve got to avoid making clunky, brick-like puns.)
A brick could be used to keep a level head. I don’t mean remaining rational, I mean literally, keep your head still and balanced and don’t let the brick fall off. Actually, keeping the brick stable on your head might keep you emotionally stable, as it’ll stop you from rushing to judgment—or rushing anywhere, inhibiting rashness.
A brick could be a politician, if you attached strings, taught it to dance, and allowed it to read a teleprompter. Remember: whether it’s Republican or Democrat, it’s still a brick, and it will do whatever the Mason’s want it to. But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work. Now, where did I leave my secret handshake?
A brick could be your new best friend. If this appeals to you, it’s probably because people tend to seek the company of others who posses similar intellects and interests. And as I have just begun demonstrating, a brick can be very interesting indeed. Now, where did I put my mortar? I must go grab some, because I think my new friend is getting cold.
