Epistemysics

Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

(Continued)

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(You see, this art history book is so big that, if there was some sort of intruder in my house – a robber trying to ransack my collection of antique chamber pots or take my diamond encrusted walking cane or threatening my wife with a gun, knife, or both together, for example – and I needed something to hit him with, and all I had to choose from was a large shovel or the art history book, I’m fairly certain that I’d probably choose the art history book.  Firstly, the shovel requires a bit of swinging room, and secondly, I think the art history book would do more damage.  I’m 95% sure – and I say this not having ever knocked anyone out in my life – that, given the tension of this robber-situation, and given the strength I’d no doubt muster (oh yes, I’m very strong – let me flex my biceps for you) to swing at him (or her, let me not be sexist, perhaps the burglar is a woman), I would incapacitate the scoundrel (or scoundrelle) with one hit.  It’d be precisely the same force that whacking someone over the head with a large saucepan would generate.  I doubt the blow would kill them (though, it should be noted, I’ve no idea how much force is required, having not gotten around to actually killing someone yet, what with the busyness of my life and all, even if I do try to search for new experiences), but I think, if they were on the ground, and perhaps the gun was still in their hand, and I could hear my six month old son from the other room crying at all the loud noise, and my wife was doing a combination of sobbing and screaming, and the gun was still in this bastard’s hand, and I could see, even with his face to the ground, that he was still breathing, breathing the air in my house under my roof in front of my half naked wife who’s screaming not just for herself but for the blood running from the guy’s head and pooling a few inches away from him (there’s always been a dip in the floor near there that we’ve never understood), and I’m standing there and being terrified at the thought of doing nothing because to do nothing means that there’d be time to think about a situation that’s too terrible to think about and that could still change as long as the guy’s still breathing, then I think that two or three or four or five – but probably no more than five – blows to the head would finish them off.

So it makes you wonder whether they’d allow me to take this book on a plane.  A theatre: maybe, you never know.  It’s bigger than a standard sized handbag, probably, but then they usually let me take my satchel in with me at most places (except for this one woman at the City Recital Hall who, if I see, I avoid and go to another door).  Hmm.  Of course, this all pales in comparison to the more pressing concern that it is bigger than my satchel, or at least it won’t fit in it.  And if it won’t fit in my satchel, then I can’t put it in there when it begins to rain, which isn’t the most optimal of situations for a book to be in…  Hmm.)

Season four of Gilmore Girls is finished.  310/whatever in le booke.

(I don’t have a collection of antique chamber pots, by the way.  Or a diamond encrusted walking cane.)

(Or a wife.)

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Written by epistemysics

June 20, 2013 at 2:44 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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