Friday, October 4, 2019


 INTRODUCTION

        As you enjoy reading a book, a lightbulb is burning alive inside that reading lamp. You hear the doorbell; it sounds cheerful, but it’s actually being electrocuted to let you know someone’s at the door.

You put this book back in its shelf — where it will be unable to dust itself or defend its fragile pages against silverfish and termites — and let your guests in. They admire your art collection, but none of them pays any attention to the poor nails holding it to the walls.

That’s the plight of objects.

Debit cards produce money for you, but are dirt poor themselves. Scalpels and forceps help save lives every day, but surgeons get all the glory.

That pair of shoes feels tight on your feet? Imagine what the shoes are going through. Do you find it pleasant to step barefoot on the grass? The grass certainly doesn’t.

We are surrounded by suffering things and, unlike humans, things don’t have a chance to make changes in their lives, to join unions, to strike, or demonstrate on the streets. They can’t verbalize their frustrations, reward themselves with other things, or even have a break: personal belongings that go on vacation with you are just transferred from one dark closet to another.

This blog is a tribute to all the inanimate man-made and natural things that are constantly facing risk, discomfort, and boredom, to make our lives better.


Sunday, September 1, 2019

photo: Laurence Klinger


THINGS THAT WAIT. 

Some things are born to wait.

Burglar alarms, fire extinguishers, insurance policies. Waiting, for them, is an honorable profession.

Unless something bad happens, they’ll just sit and wait for their expiration dates. Most of them will go through life without seeing any action.

These things display extraordinary patience, but humans prefer to label it as laziness.

Call it as you wish, inertia is precisely the most desirable quality in this category of objects. Nobody wants over-motivated fire sprinklers or burglar alarms going off because they are bored, or in need to feel productive.

Tuesday, August 20, 2019



THE LOVERS OF POMPEII

What are the lovers of Pompeii doing here? the reader must be thinking. This is a book about things. 

And why the waste of i’s, when just one would be enough? And why is Chicken Vesuvio called that way, if it was created in Chicago where there are plenty of Italians, but no volcanoes?

One question at a time, please.

When Mount Vesuvius decided to throw the mother of all tantrums, the people of Pompeii were caught by surprise. Some were walking their dogs, some were on the toilet. And some were making amore. Those people were covered with molten rock and layers of volcanic ash before they could even move. The whole city remained buried for almost 2000 years, enough time to petrify even the softest of human beings.

So those people became things, and that’s why they belong in these pages. Do they miss the old times? You bet. Frozen at whatever they were doing when disaster struck, they sit in their museum platforms like living statues on Times Square, wondering if things can become people, too.

The other questions? There are no known answers to them.



Thursday, July 25, 2019


WATER FOUNTAINS 

Fountains give.

As soon as they’re turned on, they start giving.

As long as there’s water, they keep giving.

They give shape and sound to water. They give us respite, bringing a splash of nature to busy city streets. They give birds free drinks of fresh water, and happiness to children on the hottest days.

In their absolute selflessness, even when they cry, fountains make sure to keep their tears to themselves.

Monday, July 22, 2019


   
FALL LEAVES 

They aren’t quite dead when they separate from their branches. Their chlorophyll blood will take a few more days to dry up completely. They will fall slowly to the ground, and join the others. Romantic and photogenic as it may seem, this is really the most tragic season in the life of plants; not even Flora, their goddess, can help.

A sidewalk lined with fallen leaves is not, as one may think, a nursing home for elderly leaves to gather and reminisce about the old times, and soften the path for kid’s bikes and old people’s walkers.

Let’s imagine life from the viewpoint of, say, a sycamore leaf. We’ll call it Sy. Fall has started one week ago, and Sy begins to turn yellow, then light orange. A few more days and now it hangs to the tree by a thread. Finally, a vigorous gust of wind sends it airborne. So it flies for a while and, horror of horrors, lands on a pile of dead, decomposing leaves. Sy remains there for three long days. When another gust of wind finally blows Sy away from that ghostly site, it also places it a long distance from its mother, the tree, which in turn feels lonely and exposed, as it becomes a skeleton.

At this moment, when the end is coming, being close to a loving mother would make a big difference. But as the days go by, Sly gets blown farther and farther away from the tree, to the other side of a hill, where it can no longer see its mother’s balding canopy.

This new knowledge should not keep you, reader, from enjoying the beautiful foliage of fall. It just goes to show that tragedy is, sometimes, painted with glorious colors.

Saturday, July 20, 2019


LOST LETTERS 

Letters rarely get lost, but those who do are in for a real odyssey.

What follows is a true story: a letter addressed to a Mr. Heck Golden Coriander was put in a mailbox on October 9, 1964. The sender was identified as Laura (no last name) from some place out of town.

As the letter fell into the mailbox, it apologized to a large brown envelope it had landed on, and greeted the remaining correspondence. Not a word, except for a shush here and there, as it was quite late at night.

Next morning someone unlocked the box to remove the mail, and the letter woke up with the sunshine coming in. Since it had been the last letter deposited in that box before collection, it was right at the top of the pile. So as it was being transported to the truck, it slid from the tray and landed on the sidewalk.

And there it stayed for days. It was stepped on a few times, sniffed by dogs, rained on, had its corners nibbled by rats, and finally noticed by another mailman, who picked it up and took it to be sorted and delivered.

However, after being exposed to the elements, the address on the envelope wasn’t too clear and it ended up in the wrong house. The family who lived there, the Olsons, was on vacation. The letter sat in their dark mailbox and waited. It wasn’t alone, though: a small spider had made the mailbox its home, and kept running back and forth over the letter who, up to that moment, hadn’t realized how ticklish it was.

The torture lasted two weeks, when the Olsons returned. Fortunately, Mr. Coriander was a neighbor and they knew where he lived.

That same day, Mr. Olson took the letter to Mr. Coriander’s house, where he learned that the man had passed away. Mr. Olson sent the letter back to Laura, with a note attached, explaining what had happened.

The letter never got there. Its fate is unknown. It may have gotten lost again, or thrown itself into a furnace in desperation. Nobody will ever know its contents, what the relationship was between Laura and Coriander, or if Laura even existed.

Sunday, July 7, 2019



GRASS

Two cows moo.

They don’t know why.

Or maybe they do.

They heard about the slaughterhouse; the word came as tiny vibrations in the blades of grass.

The two cows stand side by side looking in the same direction, looking at the lighthouse on the edge of a cliff where the pasture ends.

Once, they heard, a cow fell down that cliff into the sea.

That cow, they heard, woke up hungry in the middle of a very dark night and grazed her way to death.

The two cows know their end is near. They can’t bribe the farmer; all they have is milk.

If they get greedy, they’ll plunge into the sea.

If they just stand on the grass like cows, it’s the slaughterhouse.

Salvation is above, but cows are too heavy with kindness to float like stars.

Saturday, June 29, 2019


SANDBAGS 

Most things are bought for their usefulness, or their beauty.

Sandbags are bought for their weight. Not exactly a flattering motive, and that’s just the beginning of their troubled lives.

Not too long ago, sandy beaches were roads for the free, the antithesis of inhospitable highways plagued with rules and limitations.

Now, the coasts are being looted by greedy merchants who imprison truckloads of sand in bags and sell them like slaves, with the promise that they’ll protect our homes from the destructive power of wind and water.

Sand, wind, and water always lived peacefully together in beaches. It took Man to put one against the other.

Saturday, June 22, 2019


RETIRED WORDS 

They gather in diners and bars to reminisce about the old times, when they belonged in people’s mouths.

Floppy Disk is new to a group that includes old timers like Pulchritude, Icebox, and Xenotransplantation. He feels less lucky than his colleagues; britches, for example, still exist, but now they’re called pants. Dungarees became jeans, and with the new name came prestige and a higher price tag. Floppy Disks? Gone forever, both the word and the object.

Another group is formed by démodé slangs. After a couple of drinks, Bogart likes to tease Chill Pill and Talk-To-The-Hand by bragging that it was coined from a legendary actor’s on-screen chain smoking, and made immortal with the song “Don’t bogart that joint,” from the soundtrack of Easy Rider.

Truth tried to join one of the retired word groups. While claiming that it had been replaced by Alternative Facts, the word was unanimously rejected for still being relevant.

There are groups of girl words like California Widow, You Go Girl!, and Foxy. Skinny and Phat got tired of being made fun of, and left. They now belong to a group where they’re respected for what they mean, not what they sound like.

Once a year, all retired words flock to a convention at Verbatim Stadium in Dublin. There, one will find words as complicated as Omphaloskepsis and Hootenanny, and as ancient as the Victorian Benjo and Chuckaboo.

Wednesday, June 12, 2019


ANTHILLS 

For sale, anthill recently vacated¹, in a great, flood-free location, with virtually no human interest for future real estate development, government projects, or agriculture². Plenty of parking and winter food storage space underground. Ramps and tunnels in great condition. Never been stepped or driven on. Anteater proof ³. Spacious workers’ quarters and luxurious queen suites. Will trade for bird’s nests, dens, caves, burrows, and spider webs of equal or lesser value. Also suitable for termites 4.


¹ Unless building presents a health hazard, disclosure of reason for abandonment is not required by law, but may be available upon request. 
² Limited guaranty, based on notorious human unpredictability. 
³ Applies only to pygmy southern anteaters (Tamandua tetradactyla minoris.) 
4 Available by Formicidae family members invitation only.

Friday, June 7, 2019


THINGS AS FOOD 

About one billion people on earth have nothing to eat.

That’s because Man can only eat a very small percentage of what nature produces. Rocks, wood, metals, poisonous plants and animals, lava, soil — all out of Man’s menu. Magellan’s crew had to eat leather and sawdust when they ran out of food; nearly all died. To make things worse, whatever Man can eat has to be fresh. Man’s delicate little stomach can only stand soft, and toxin-free foods. Meanwhile, bacteria thrive on decayed fare, termites survive on wood, and vultures feast on rotten flesh.

Would that billion still be hungry if they could stretch their arms and reach for just about anything to give them sustenance? Wouldn’t things like obsolete computer parts, upholstery, fertilizers, old rubber tires, expired credit cards, wall paint, clothing, window treatments, be more useful feeding people rather than landfills?

Monday, June 3, 2019



FORBIDDEN SUBSTANCES 

We’ve all heard about agricultural, pharmaceutical, and food products banned after proven dangerous to human health. And we all know that the greedy companies responsible for these toxic substances don’t just quit making them; instead, they sell them to third world countries with laws and regulations less strict than ours.

This is such a scandal, in the human level, that it’s easy to forget what the chemicals themselves are going through. Individually, they are not evil. But when combined and manipulated by sellout scientists, they become dangerous. As if it weren’t enough being banned in their homeland, they are deported and forced to live in some of the poorest regions of the world.

Put yourself in the shoes of an all-American pesticide arriving in India without any knowledge of Hindi, and not a clue about that country’s culture. Or, imagine an injectable contraceptive, a native of Iowa, landing in the African savanna completely unprepared for the brutal climate of that region.

This is not fiction; it’s happened before, thousands of times, and it keeps happening today. Fungicides sent to Iraq in the middle of a war, fire-retardant materials shipped to the slums of Rio, unarmed and unprotected. Pain killers stranded in islands under military dictatorships.

Lonely and homesick, at least they find a little comfort knowing that they’ll be accepted in these places without any restrictions.

Monday, May 27, 2019


RUBBER BANDS 

The first stretch is agonizing. The suffering continues as they contract back to their normal size, but now it’s the pain of realizing that they were born elastic.

Some rubber bands, though, never return to their original state. They are stretched around things like stacks of paper, or bunches of chopsticks, and stay that way, sometimes for many years, until old age makes them brittle.

Many rubber bands dream about being solid as bricks, unstretchable by even the strongest hands. Or they may fantasize that they’ve become like their most powerful relatives, the long-lived bungee cords.

On the bright side, the very nature of rubber bands allow them to retaliate when someone stretches them excessively by snapping themselves and, like a whip, inflicting stinging pain on the offending hand.

Thursday, May 16, 2019


PIANO PARTS 

A woman found a box filled with old piano keys in a dumpster. She took the box to a music store. They told her the keys were real ivory and ebony, which they don’t use anymore to make keyboards.

Next day, the same woman found another box, this time containing piano strings, and took it to the store again. Those, she was informed, were very good quality iron strings, but replaced by carbon strings since 1834.

The woman kept finding different piano parts, in the same dumpster. One day it was a set of pedals. Another day it was a stretcher bar or the top board. It looked like somebody in the neighborhood was dismantling and disposing of a very old piano. She felt a strange sadness about the abandoned pieces, and gave them protection in the basement of her house.

One day, there were no more piano parts in the dumpster. Every piece, from the felt hammers to the beautiful golden frame had been stored in the woman’s basement. She could only imagine how beautiful it must have sounded in its day. She called the music store man and offered him good money to put the piano back together again. He couldn’t: pianos like that one didn’t exist anymore, and neither did the craftsmen who built them.

The woman died a few years later, and her house was sold. The new owners found the piano parts in the basement, and took them to the dumpster, a few pieces each day.

Friday, May 3, 2019


COFFINS 

Reality unfolds slowly for coffins. While being built in the carpenter’s workshop, they assume they’ll end up as dinner tables or cabinets. Once their lids are installed, they think, well, perhaps I’ll be a trunk.

When a body is laid inside them, all doubts go away: of course, I’m a bed!

But that’s where the confusion really starts; the coffin is taken to a place with flowers and candles, and people crying and praying as if they’ve lost someone.

Finally, the coffin is buried, maybe so its dweller can relax in the dark until the next morning, but the next morning never comes. At this point, coffins no longer know what they came to this world for, and why they’re covered in dirt after all the effort put into their construction.

For a few lucky ones, roots will show up and connect them with the trees where they came from.

Sunday, April 28, 2019


TANS 

Tans need human skin to exist (see the chapter on parasitical keyholes) just like melanoma, eczema, and boils. The difference is, most of the time, tans are desirable.

Tans hate people who wake up after sunset, such as cabaret entertainers and jazz players. They hate intellectuals, too.

They love body builders and rich girls

They hate New York, they love Cannes.

They hate beach umbrellas, hats, awnings, roofs. They love endless deserts.

They hate 15 SPF sunscreen. They hate 30 SPF more.

They hate the color white. They love all shades of red.

They hate nordic countries, but they love the concept of a midnight sun.

They hate the poles. They love the tropics.

Rooftops, yes. Basements, no.

No caves, no mines, no tunnels, no movie theaters.

The sun will last for at least another 5 billion years. Sadly, it seems that people and their tans won’t.

Friday, April 19, 2019


BAG LADIES’ BAGS 

Some of us have things written on our foreheads, figuratively speaking. Plastic bags have them for real. However, they don’t choose or mean what those words say. Thanks For Shopping With Us is something they’d never come up with.

Sometimes bags are tied into knots by people with idle minds, which makes them really mad and useless. Sometimes, when left alone, the wind will help them take flight and move away really fast. Is a good blast of air what they’re waiting for when we see them loitering and littering the sidewalk?

Sometimes they’re overfilled; plastic bags cannot control what is put into them, so they often stretch and weaken in places, forming streaks, like pregnant bellies.

Thanks to the dependence bag ladies have on plastic bags to keep their belongings dry and safe, used plastic bags can get conceited to the point of becoming delusional. They’ve been known to humiliate paper bags publicly, and even burden themselves with impossibly ambitious endeavors.

Monday, April 8, 2019


ART FRAMES 

As it hears the museum doors lock for the day, the elaborate hand carved wooden frame starts laughing wildly at the childish Miró composition inside it, a nightly ritual of humiliation.

The minimalistic black frame, chosen for its neutrality, bends and twists to expel its baroque contents.

The antique gilded frame conspires to outshine the Klimt painting and its wealth of gold leaf.

Wherever they are, whoever they belong to, frames cannot help competing with what they frame.

Tuesday, April 2, 2019



BALLPOINT PENS 

Their tips were solid gold and their bodies were covered in fine Chinese lacquer, or sculpted with pure silver. Often, they were inlaid with mother-of-pearl and precious gems.

Such were pens. Owned by rich landowners and industrialists, used by presidents to sign laws that changed history, and by powerful businessmen to close multimillion-dollar deals.

That is, until the ballpoint was invented and pens finally became accessible for the masses. You could see them everywhere: behind the ears of bakers, in the shirt pockets of accountants and waiters, tucked into the overalls of factory workers and mechanics, inside the toolboxes of plumbers and carpenters, next to cheap drugstore makeup in middle class women’s purses.

Unlike pencils — popular from the start and happy about it — ballpoints suffered the same faith of all shoddy versions of luxury items.

As the years passed, the humiliation only got worse; ballpoints became something that people didn’t mind losing, or getting back after lending them out.

You know you’ve reached rock bottom when you’re abandoned in offices and libraries, and nobody even bothers to steal you.

Wednesday, March 20, 2019


PENCIL SHAVINGS 

The squeamish may see pencil shavings as the painful result of skinning writing instruments.

The scientific mind will see them as the shedding and renovation of the outermost membrane of a pencil’s tissue.

For the spiritual, pencil shavings are seen as the desirable loss of material layers that expose the naked graphite soul.

And what do pencils think? They don’t.

Pencils were made to express other people’s ideas, not to think.

Sunday, March 17, 2019


CHEAP THINGS 

Dollar store articles, one imagines, must certainly be envious of their brand name counterparts.

Fancy products, on the other hand, must view cheap stuff with contempt.

Seems logical enough but the truth is, they’re unaware of each other. Value is a concept invented by humans, and never adopted by silverware, make-up sets, or coffee mugs.

A Bugatti doesn’t feel any different from a VW Beetle. A Hermés handbag doesn’t consider itself superior to a shopping bag from the Gap.

Objects will never understand why a certain label could make them more desirable. Quality, rarity, durability, performance, these are all concepts created by humans and too abstract for objects to grasp.

Friday, March 8, 2019


THE WAITING ROOM.
A play

MAGAZINE RACK
(to PERSIAN RUG)
These magazines are so old, some have Liz Taylor’s first wedding on the cover.

PERSIAN RUG
How can you trust a dentist that never replaces his magazines?

MAGAZINE RACK
He’s such a miser.

PERSIAN RUG
Not the kind of flaw you want to see in a dentist.

MAGAZINE RACK
Right. A fake Persian rug won’t harm anyone, but what if he decides to go just as cheap with his implants?
PERSIAN RUG
I know what you mean. A flimsy magazine rack from Ikea won’t last long, but a crown should.

COFFEE TABLE
Stop bickering, please. It’s miserable enough here.

PERSIAN RUG
Worse than the dumpster where they found you?

END OF ACT 1

Sunday, March 3, 2019


UMBRELLAS 

Umbrellas don’t know they’re umbrellas. Umbrellas think they’re bats; the similarity between their ribs and bats’ fingers extending under black “wings” is certainly at the root of the misconception.

Ironically, umbrellas come out when the rain falls, but they can’t get any water. Umbrellas are made of waterproof materials that make the rain bounce off of them. Umbrellas are always thirsty, and often become dehydrated.

The lifespan of umbrellas is relatively short. While their canopies are remarkably durable, their mechanisms are fragile. When unable to open, optimistic umbrellas might find new ways to be useful, serving as walking canes or devices of self-defense.

The great majority, though, end up taking their own lives: the tragic view of umbrellas turned inside out in garbage cans is all too common these days.

Wednesday, February 27, 2019



KEYHOLES 

While not considered objects per se, keyholes belong to a parasitical variety that relies on real objects in order to survive. It includes shadows, smells, reflections, speed, and others, though keyholes are unique in that they’re able to develop symbiotic relationships with keys.

Sometimes called negative spaces or peep holes, keyholes are often mentioned in mystery novels, and used as metaphors (“the thick, long key slowly penetrated the tight keyhole…”)

Unfortunately, keyholes are now an endangered species. With the advent of magnetic cards, millions of keyholes have lost their jobs in hotels worldwide. The predicted adoption of keyless combination locks might be the next, and final, nail in their coffin.

Thursday, February 21, 2019




SPIRAL NOTEBOOK COVERS 

They used to have a hundred pages between them.

But spirals lose their pages over time. They may be torn off precociously to destroy evidence, or develop paper fatigue by being handled back and forth excessively.

When the last page is gone, back and front covers meet for the first time. This might be a happy occasion, if they happen to be feeling lonely and empty inside. Or it could be a troubled one, in case they’ve become too well adjusted to their isolation.

In either case, they’re handcuffed to sturdy spirals, unable to go anywhere.

Saturday, February 16, 2019


SPIKE RECEIPT HOLDERS 

Thanks to recycling, spike receipt holders now descend from anything metallic, from paper clips to cars, and thus carry their souls. True evil holders from the past, forged from virgin steel with the specific purpose of stabbing innocent receipts and memos are found only in antique stores or offices that haven’t been renovated in decades, and are probably blunt.

A spike holder recycled from a pair of scizzors, for instance, has no idea why it’s putting holes through paper, instead of cutting it.

A recycled steel paper tray could be driven to insanity by having to impale the very things it was conceived to protect.

Even recycled frying pans, hardened by the hellish reality of stovetops, can’t understand what kind of dish you get by skewering pieces of paper.

As expected, recycled swords and hunting knives experience a much smoother transition into their new role.

Sunday, February 10, 2019




ALPHABET 

Capital letters think being big and tall gives them the right to ridicule their lowercase counterparts. The following offensive words were heard within the pages of a book:

B to b: Jeez, what happened to your other butt cheek?

F to f: Looks like you need Viagra up there.

H to h: I’m so tired, do you mind if I sit on you?

J to j: I don’t get your point.

L to l: Sorry you lost your foot, but trying to look like number one doesn’t help at all.

It’s not funny. If lowercase letters decide to leave, imagine what kind of world we’ll be living in, with nothing but big, screaming, capital letter ruffians populating all our reading materials.

Wednesday, February 6, 2019


BEACH CHAIRS

The Portendorfers packed the car with their clothes, a dog bed, a giant bag of dog food, a baby stroller, grandma’s wheelchair, beach toys for the other two children, a big beach umbrella, and matching beach chairs. As expected, the whole paraphernalia didn’t fit in the trunk, so Mr. Portendorfer tied some of it to the roof of the car. The family, including the dog, squeezed into the vehicle and left their suburban home for the beach.

Well into the trip, one of the chairs became loose and fell off the car. That was when the Portendorfers were all singing together, so they didn’t hear a thing.

Luckily for the chair, the impact made it roll all the way to the side of the road before getting hit by other cars. It stayed there for a while, folded as it had been packed. Its aluminum frame had suffered a few dents and the seat was torn. But it was all in one piece.

When the dust settled, the chair stretched its four legs and started walking in the direction the car had gone. Its frame was so badly bent, the only way it could move forward was by limping sideways like a crab.

Night fell, but it was still bright with the moon, and the headlights.

Later, black clouds covered the moon, and the rain fell hard on the forest, drowning the sounds of crickets and cicadas. Sometimes the chair stumbled on a rock or a ditch, but it was important to keep its balance: flipping on its back meant never being able to stand up again.

The Portendorfers arrived at the beach house. While unloading the car, Mrs. Portendorfer noticed that one of the beach chairs was missing, and asked her husband to drive back and try to find it. But Mr. Portendorfer didn’t think that a cheap old beach chair was worth his trouble, especially at this time of night, and with all the rain.

As the Portendorfers slept, the chair dragged itself through the storm. When it arrived at the beach house, the sun was shining and the Portendorfers were eating breakfast.

When the family came out, they found the missing chair on the grass, all twisted and crooked, covered with mud and weeds. The other chairs had gathered around it, to hear its story.

I wish I could say that the family was ecstatic to see their loyal beach chair back, that the children jumped with happiness, that their parents had tears in their eyes, that they all got together and washed it, fixed it, and took it to the beach with them. Yes, I wish I could say that.

Thursday, January 31, 2019


13TH ROLLS IN A BAKER’S DOZEN 

You order a dozen rolls and the baker throws in a 13th roll for free. Once inside the bag, they all look the same to you. But that 13th roll knows that it is the free roll. And it assumes that you won’t respect it as much as the other dozen rolls you had to pay for. It thinks you might use it as pigeon food, for example, but never served on a nice breakfast table with fancy Irish butter and English marmalade.

13th rolls, like anything that is given for free, promptly loose their self-esteem. Lollipops in pediatricians’ offices feel the same way. And so do antibacterial wipes and liquids, available everywhere now, free of charge.

Tuesday, January 29, 2019


MEN’S NECKTIES 

Maybe only headbands and eye patches require less fabric to make.

The unsubstantiality of ties is best observed when they are put over generously cut shirts, or long, double-breasted trench coats.

Ties see themselves as whatever’s left on the clothing factory’s floor after a day’s work, byproducts of worthy garments, the gift of choice of cheap, lazy people without imaginations, bibs for drooling fools, unwilling symbols of the establishment, irrelevant, suffocating strips of fabric with fancy names on their way out of men’s wardrobes, just like it happened with suspenders.

When that day comes, expect to see a lot of them hanging by their own necks.

Friday, January 25, 2019


FRAGILE STICKERS 

Just like Stop signs in Italy and No Smoking signs in Russia, Fragile stickers all over the world get no respect. 

Although bright red and written in bold letters, they command no attention. Reverse psychology makes baggage handlers and delivery people give rougher-than-usual treatment to containers with Fragile stickers. Actually, putting a Fragile sticker on your package practically guarantees that it will arrive damaged at its destination. 

Travel bags checked in with Fragile stickers will show up in baggage areas fully open, their contents shamefully scattered all over conveyor belts for everyone to see.

Still, Fragile stickers keep pretending that they work, and people keep buying them. It’s one of those things we never learn, such as adopting chimpanzees as pets even after reading about people’s faces being ripped off by deceptively friendly primates.

Sunday, January 20, 2019


CROCHET COVERS 

False prudes like the ladies who make them, crochet covers pretend to protect and beautify household items in order to feed their perversions.

You will see these handmade artifacts clinging to teapots, toilet lids, pillows, mason jars, toasters, toys, dog sweaters, doorknobs, and other victims, all disfigured by the same mediocre, repetitive patterns woven mechanically by hands disconnected from their brains.

Crochet covers will take the shape of whatever they cloak, and rob their soul, like parasitic vines climbing trees to suffocate them.

They will mask the age and reality of objects with their meaningless mandalas, making it look, to the outside world, that everything is well and under control.


Thursday, January 17, 2019

HATS 

Overheard at the Department of Hat Complaints:

From a Pork Pie: “Hats can’t wear hats!”

From a Homburg: “We crown people’s heads, yet we’re not considered regal.”

From a Panama: “We rhyme with cats, rats, bats and fats.”

“And what’s so bad about that?” the clerk challenged the Panama, “scarf rhymes with barf, shoes rhyme with booze, and we never had a single complaint about that.

The Panama cleared its throat: “My cousin, a fine Fedora, was on a man’s head when the wind made him fly and land on the roof of a house. The man rang the bell and a deaf old lady opened the door. My hat is on your roof, the man said.

“Oh, it’s all right, the lady said, cats like going there because the tiles are warm.

“Not a cat, my hat! the man yelled.

“The lady replied: That’s strange, bats usually hide under the roof during the day.

“My hat, lady!

“How dare you call me a fat lady? she said, and slammed the door.

“My cousin was never seen again.

Saturday, January 12, 2019


COTTON SWABS 

After being purchased and taken out of their sealed boxes, cotton swabs usually live with their heads or butts uncovered, in cups. For the untrained eyes of humans, both heads and butts look exactly the same.

Cotton swabs placed head-down, with their butts sticking up, are usually made fun by the ones who, although by mere chance, were put upright. The sad truth is, all of them have to live with their heads really close to the butts of other Cotton Swabs, sometimes even touching if there isn’t enough space.

When they see a hand approaching, Cotton swabs move surreptitiously, trying to avoid being picked. They know the horrors awaiting them: they will be forced inside hairy, greasy tunnels, and turned around until both their neat white ends become brownish and disheveled. After that, they’ll be thrown in a can of trash, and a lid will descend upon them, bringing total darkness.

As opposed to humans and some other animals, cotton swabs are only young enough to live while their manes are white.

Tuesday, January 8, 2019


RECEPTACLES 

Dear Dr. Hope:

I came to this world as a pencil holder and was perfectly happy with that. True, sometimes pencils had broken points and pens were missing their caps, but the consistency of my contents was very reassuring.

One day, though, they emptied me of all those writing instruments, filled me with cold water, and stuck a thorny rose inside me. The scratches still hurt.

Not too long after that, I was put up for sale at a thrift store for nearly nothing. Someone took me home and poured scalding hot coffee inside me. What’s next?

Dr. Hope, I don’t know anymore what I am, and what other tortures destiny holds for me.
I hope you can help me.

Ms. Disillusioned.

Dear Ms. Disillusioned:

Your identity crisis is very common for objects with similar shapes. We recently had a letter from a receptacle that started as a fruit bowl, became a foot soaking bucket, and ended up as a chamber pot. Degrading, for sure, but not the end of the world.

The important thing is to be regarded as useful, always. The option is the landfill, and unless you are used to a promiscuous lifestyle, I don’t think you would enjoy that.

Glad to be of help,

Dr. Hope

Friday, January 4, 2019


JEWISH QUARTERS 

When the Jews were expelled from Iberia, they had to leave all sorts of things behind. As they fled to other places around the world, their beautiful synagogues, stone-paved streets, baths, homes, and the tombstones of their ancestors remained undisturbed for many years; nobody wanted to move into the Jewish quarters, fearing that they’d be accused of being Jews with Christian names trying to avoid prosecution.

It’s important to note that buildings and public areas in ghettos don’t know much about prejudice, even if they live smack in the middle of where it happens. They also fail to realize that they’re too big and heavy to travel with their owners.

Feeling abandoned by the people who built and took care of them lovingly, and left, then rejected by everyone else for 500 years, they couldn’t imagine anything worse happening to them. 

And then the tourists arrived.