I curse inanimate objects all the time.
The beauty of such a thing is that it comes with none of the residual effects of human interaction such as grudging apologies, or in extreme cases, gunfire. Truth be told, if I treated a woman the way I treat my toaster, she would have torched me while I was sleeping by now.
I should preface this by saying I don’t curse inanimate objects if they’re doing the job they were intended to do. And I’m not sleeping with my toaster, either. That would be crazy.
A bad day usually precedes the one sided confrontation. After which things get said, really bad things. Some of these things are crystal clear while others are more indecipherable than the minutes of a Portuguese exorcism. Unlike with human beings, every syllable is meant to hurt, maim and ultimately, to kill.
Case in point my stereo speaker. It made the regrettable decision to leave me just when I needed it most.
“Sonova . . . (I even drew it out, as if the stereo speaker was supposed to cower or something . . . like, why the hell would I do that? I mean, I gotta admit, it does seem kinda silly, now) . . .BITCH!
Thus my rant was born, from this immodest harbinger. A rant the size and strength for which Defcon was created in the first place. All four letter possibilities were exhausted after which variables were tabulated before being strewn out in an algorithmic chant. By this time, my brain and mouth were working at a pace which would make those IBM virtual virtuosos piss their pants.
Four letter words expand, contort, repeat. “Fuckingtastic” is a favorite of mine. I belted that one out and then added a new entry to my repertoire with “Shit-A-Rific”.
Their less biting peers were metabolized by my sonic boom. I went nuclear on Meriam Webster’s good book to such a degree that the cockroaches wouldn’t have survived the fallout. Or even Larry King for that matter.
Once it became apparent that my stereo speaker had decided to take its job and shove it, I became the conduit to a high stakes poker game between Richard Pryor and Lyndon B. Johnson. Yes, my rants are that specific.
As with any bad romance, there had to be a memorable exit stage left. So I ripped the cord from its “Fucking Fucking Fucking” stereo mama (think Dave Chappelle as a real estate agent, substitute location . .) after which I proceeded to the front door and tossed it out into the mystic. In this instance, my front yard.
Some would say this was an extreme measure. My therapist for one. But hey, these irreconcilable differences with inanimate objects do serve a purpose. They keep the neighbors at a distance and they shake off stress. The equivalent of a five mile run, even.
Okay, so I’m not sure whether it was five miles worth of stress reduction happening tonight. But since I blew off my run, I’m grabbing the placebo end of the argument, cool?
And besides. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but I think these little operatic performances keep my phone from straying.