A brick and a blanket aptly describe my former roommate. He was as dumb as a brick, and only highly functional on a bed. Or so I heard—not that I’d know from personal experience.


But men are such strange creatures, really. I think most of them would rather we weren’t around at all, so they could just spend time mooning over each other. Hero worship and all that stuff.

A blanket could be used like a giant piece of paper. Most people just want to cum on it, but occasionally someone will want to splash ink on it and try to impregnate the minds of the people.


A blanket could be considered part of performance art, if you’re inconsiderate and steal all the covers while we’re asleep—and film me shivering and twitching in the night. 


A brick could be used to gauge the level of reciprocated sexual interest of the person or object of your desire. A brick works best, however, when the focus of your lust is the brick itself. 


A brick could be used to unite two long-lost brothers. They’ve been apart for six inches, and that’s entirely too long, and I think it’d be good to bring them back together.


A blanket could be drenched in water, frozen, and then enjoyed like a giant cotton popsicle by prisoners of a gulag, who might consider this a tasty treat compared to what they normally eat. 


A brick could be substituted in for Kansas as a US state, because they’re roughly the same shape, they have the same topography, and I just found Topeka without the aid of a microscope.


Love is something you must work at. And if you can’t work at it, don’t expect the government to subsidize you. At least not until the Central Bank figures out how to counterfeit emotions.

A brick could be used as a boat, and due to the brick’s reputation of indestructibility, we could call the boat “The Titanic.” Surely a brick with that name would never sink.


A brick could be used to double back, donkey levitate cough meow cough meow hiss on giraffe shaft stroke a local bloke bludgeon Armageddon—not my arm, Sorry, I think I just had a stroke.


A brick could be used to represent society as a whole. But to represent society as a half, I’d recommend using either a full carton of half and half, or a half-full carton of whole milk.


A brick could used to translate and transform long cuneiform texts into shorter tweets. Sure, just take the brick and smash the clay tablets, and each broken fragment should be roughly 140 characters.

A brick could be used to sell new shoes to a man with no hands. I would say a brick could be used to sell a handless man new gloves, but that’s a bit of a stretch, even for a rubber band.


A brick could be used as a scapegoat. But don’t blame the brick. The brick didn’t kill my mother-in-law. It was merely the instrument I utilized in showing her how much I loved her.