Archive for April, 2012

“These pants are not fucking real! There is no fucking way!”

I’m screaming at my work pants, laying on the ironing board in front me in my bedroom.  My wife is attempting to sleep in on her day off and our three-year-old daughter has snuck into our bed to watch Dora The Explorer while I battle the evil fabric from the Netherworlds.

“Daddy, why are you yelling?”

“Because these pants are evil, baby.  I have been ironing them for five minutes on the highest heat and the wrinkles…they stay!  This defies reality!  They are evil, you hear me little girl?  These pants are evil.  I hate you, pants!”

My daughter giggles and crawls across the bed toward the ironing board.  “Can I see the evil pants?”

“NO, don’t touch them.  Who knows where they came from.”  I look at the wrinkled khaki slacks before me.  “What are you?  Why do you defy me?!  What do you want from us!?”

My wife rolls over.  “I’m seriously going to go live with my mother for a while.  You are fucking insane.”

Yes, I talk to inanimate objects.  Some may consider this no different from talking to yourself (which is also perfectly acceptable in many cases and another behavior I regularly partake in) but I don’t think it’s exactly the same.  When I talk to an object that is, by standard scientific standards, not alive or self-aware, I am still talking to that object.  I don’t really care if it can hear me or has any biological or even metaphysical ability to receive my voice and process it in any way.  I don’t fucking care.  I’m talking (or yelling at it) on principle…and we all fuckin’ do it.
It is key to our personal psychological health, in my extremely educated opinion, to express our displeasure at any person or thing that fucks with us.  It’s a must for stress relief and it constantly reinforces our sense of pride and personal principle.  Plus it makes you look kinda’ crazy and NOBODY messes with the crazy guy.

See, conversation is not necessarily a two-way street.  We all know they can be very one-sided.  We even find ourselves often entering into a one-sided conversation intentionally…because we just have something to fucking say and we are going to say it.
We do it with people…and we do it the inanimate objects.  That rock you just tripped on?

“Oh fuck you, rock!  The fuck good are you!  You literally couldn’t amount to anything geologically important so you just sit there on the sidewalk, tripping people like an asshole?  Great life choice, rock!  Way to give back.”

That needed to be said.  It did.  That screw you were trying to put back in that slips out of your fingers and down into the heating vent forever?

“So that’s it, huh?  That’s where you wanna go?  Down in a fucking heating vent for eternity?  Not man enough to screw back into this shelf and support the frame the way you were meant to…huh?!  Just couldn’t hack it so you’d rather lay in a dusty heating vent and accomplish nothing! Rust away into the ether.  Fine, you coward!  Stay down there.  You’re a disgrace.  And you’re replaceable!  Remember that!”

And because we all think it, yes even you, dear reader….maybe, just maybe, those things CAN hear us in some way.  I am a believer in science and laugh at the supernatural…but maybe some of those crazy religions are right.  The ones that say everything has a spirit or whatever the fuck.  If that is in anyway the case, then we have a duty-however small that possibility.  What if you found out some day that every thing DOES have a spirit of some kind?  How haunted would you be knowing how you let all those stupid asshole objects throughout your life get away with such bullshit?  It’s too late to go yell at that dumpster that came out goddamn NOWHERE when you were seventeen and hit the back of your car while you were backing up.  That dumpster is gone now and totally got away with fucking up your summer scott-free.  Somewhere, that dumpster could be laughing its green, rusty ass off at you.  I will never have that problem.

Back to the pants.

These new but very cheap khakis I had bought on clearance at Target were apparently made of some material unknown to modern science.  No amount of heat, steam, and pressure would force that fabric to lay flat without wrinkles.  So I had to turn to my words.

“It’s like they are defying known physics!  Where do you come from!?  What do you want from me?!”

My daughter is laughing hysterically.  My wife is rolling over in bed moaning.

“Seriously, these things are like from a Lovecraft story.  Do you worship Cthulhu!?  Stand back, these pants are not of this world!”

My wife finally jumps out of bed.  “For fuck sake…just go downstairs and get her some breakfast.  I’ll iron your stupid pants!”

I grab my giggling daughter and we make our way down the stairs.  “Quickly, my munchkin.  We must leave your mother to her fate!”

“Daddy, you’re crazy.”

Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  I leave nothing to chance.  Though I could then hear my wife cursing under her breath from the bedroom: “What are these things made of?  Freaking kevlar? You fucking suck, pants…ruin my goddamn day off…”

Uh Huh.