I was making my daily tea and I thought why do we talk like this? Do we really believe that water is having a good time in there? Really? In a pot set upon an Inquisitorial fire like that? Does anyone truly believe water molecules are really having a rollicking good time in a cauldron of death? Is it Studio 54 in the glory days of coke and Bianca Jagger astride a white horse? Is it a bistro Zagats couldn't hyperbolize enough? Is it the Playboy Bunny Ranch where Carrothead with the extraterrestrial-looking plastic surgery gets what Carrothead does not truly deserve? Hell no. I peer into the pot, too closely, and I wince back from the heated steam. Water molecules are being boiled to death in there! Language is a travesty of reality, or reality is a travesty of language. Water molecules are being kicked around in a higher energy state like soccer fans at a Brazilian quarterfinal. And this you call rollicking. They are giving up the ghost in the form of steam. You are witnessing a water massacre and yet you call it Club Med. Rollicking indeed. More of your poncey, pratty talk. It was probably a poet. A poet who said that. They are the gittish pornographers of the true physics of the universe. And they think they are babysitting language, while out in the street everybody knows that that "baby" gets hers every night as soon as her parents leave the house. Rollicking!
Puh-leeze.
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