A brick could be used to knock out the tooth of a giant, and then used as a replacement for that very tooth it knocked out. I’ll tell you what, you knock it out, and I’ll put the new one back in—and I’ll charge a fee for both transactions.
I have to put up a wall to put up with him. Not an invisible, metaphoric emotional wall, but a wall made of bricks. Those bricks could be used to keep out his bullshit. Bricks could transform him from friend into neighbor, and I think that’s pretty special.
A brick could be used as a time travel device. I didn’t say it would work well, and you’d say it didn’t work at all, but I’d reply that you probably weren’t using it right. A brick is so complicated that it’s incredibly simple.
A brick could be used like a fleeglebeegle, which in turn could be used like a zoopkatofka, which itself could be used like a Wexlybexter Device (the one with the hand crank, not the one with the foot peddles). Gosh, I hope I clarified at least one thing for you.
A brick could be used to make the world safer for our children. Well, not our children, as I don't actually have any kids—but certainly your children. Skeptical? A brick could better protect your children than all the Federal government agencies combined.
A brick could be strapped to the back of a pet gerbil, to teach it how to swim. That’s how I learned to swim. Grandpa glued a gerbil to my back, dropped me off in the middle of Lake Erie, and told me he expected both of us back for dinner the following night.
A brick could be carried to the beach. You can bring your laptop or tablet and work from anywhere in the world, but when you get that brick in the sand, you’re symbolically saying, “This is my building—and my office has the best possible view.”
A blanket could be used as a screen to project animated bedtime stories onto, and also a place to project your fears about society not being accepting of adults who watch movies directed at an audience of four-year-olds. Trust me, I’ve been there—26 years ago.
A brick could be held in one hand, and a stack of dollar bills in the other, to illustrate the difference in weight between the real and the imaginary. The imaginary only weighs more when you believe in it, and then once you stop believing in it, it weighs next to nothing.
A blanket could be used to keep people warm. But take it from me: you want to freeze those dead bodies as soon as they’re cold and lifeless, because you don’t want the bodies staying warm and decomposing while you’re looking for a place to dispose of them.
A blanket could be used to put the war in warm. Just paint the blanket like an American flag, and then try to convince the world that they are cold and need us to stop shivering. But before you do, consider they aren’t shivering from cold—they are shaking with rage.
A blanket, when taken to the top of a mountain and laid flat, could be painted orange and used as a landing pad for when the aliens come to earth to save humanity. The only problem is, with it being painted orange, what if the construction workers arrive before the extraterrestrials?
A brick could be used in conjunction with another brick to be the Democrat and Republican Presidential candidates. People will say, Vote for the brick on the left, or, The brick on the right is better. But do not be deceived—they're both the same, and they're both bricks.
A blanket could be used to alert your guest when he’s overstayed his welcome. But what’s even more effective would be a flying brick at his forehead. Subtlety can be a bit soft, and can make it hard to differentiate between leave my house immediately and please, spend the night.
If I were a mad scientist, I’d use a brick in an angry way. And if I were a mad scientist, I’d use it in a diabolically clever way. Probably I’d use the brick, in conjunction with a blanket, to create an army of clones to take over Wall Street—and therefore the world.
