I love this book like I love a brick and a blanket, which could be used to teach people the value of safe sex. Remember, if you’re going to have safe sex, try not to get locked inside the safe without anybody on the outside knowing the combination.
A brick could be used to represent no, and a blanket could be used to represent yes. If I ask you, “Will you sleep with me?” I expect you to run to the bedroom, get naked, and get under the blanket. Whatever you do, do not reach for the brick.
A brick could be used as a cuddle partner. Just glue some fur on it and voila! It’s as good as snuggling with any dead animal you find on the side of the highway. (Which is getting rarer to find in this depression where everyone’s going hungry.)
A brick could be used to symbolize my fear. You may snicker and call me an irrational coward, but many people are afraid of spiders, and my fear, the brick, is a killer of spiders. Is it not reasonable to be afraid of what you’re afraid of is afraid of?
One brick is not a wall. Unless you’re an ant, and then it’s not only a wall, it’s a building—a building that has no doors, windows, or people in the form of managers that I’d like to smash in the face with a building (or a brick).
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 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 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.
