Now Tip This
And where is Mad? Did he take that copy of British Bike into the loo? Will someone please take notes for Mad?
Ready? Right. Now I gave up on the idea of becoming a tipping point after riding a Mo-ped to school during my Sophomore year in high school, but I though that the time has now come to take a stab at it again.
(tipping point is a [currently-arcane] reference that only the wisest of owls, a lone Pom or two, and I might guess, a coffee-making Key Stone should instantly recognize, but the rest of you will hopefully get the idea pretty quick)
I recall when the word “man” became a hip and cool word. It was all the rage back then. Since that time, I have noticed, many new words have come and gone, but man, that one just won’t die or go away. Maybe it’s because I use it so much myself, and just maybe I am the only one still doing so. I don’t really know.
But I am fed up to here with a certain phrase, and I want to step out of the box, so to speak, and take this expression, tie it up in a bed sheet, wrap it in plastic, seal it with duct tape, paint it over with toxic paint, weight it down with tons of rocks, load it on a freighter, and then invite all my friends to come stand on the dock of the bay to watch the term as it heads for Davy’s Locker. We can bring beer, if you want, and we can cheer. Think out of the box here with me.
I am so sick of the idiom I want to kick the box, smash it, compress it, fold, spindle, mutilate and bite the thing till it begs for mercy, and only then will I consider having one of those beers myself. It galls me to hear it said. So let’s all go for the gall one final time. Think outside the box.
Man, what in the thunder does that really mean? You know, when I first heard the term, I actually thought, cool, man. There is a term I can dig, daddy-o. Far out! I thought, hey, dude, that describes me to a tee. Chill, dawg! Outasight! My ace-in-the-whole! Yewbetcha! And gigabytes to yo moma, just for good measure. Big whoop.
What a snobbish bunch of claptrap.
I am not a box. My head is not cube-shaped in any sense. And I resent the implication that I should try to think different. I am already different enough, thank-you-and-hand-me-the-damn-check.
So I want to get credit for being the tipping point. I do, I do, I do. But here is the problem. Mom always told me, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Right on, Ma! So here’s the plan, Stan. We can’t wish this inane thing away. That ain’t gunna happen. Nosiree, Bob. We have to replace it with a better, newer saying if this plan is to work. Alright, you surely get my drift by now. Let’s all reflect in another pool. Sense in another continuum. Sow in another field, perhaps. But let’s all get cracking.
Now look busy.