Blunt Wit

Today I am unveiling a new classification system for individuals based on rigorous scientific study, deep spiritual contemplation and keen social observation. Everyone, and I mean everyone, falls into one of these two camps: Shirt People or Sock People.

This is serious, just hear me out. Sock people are one of a pair. They must find their match and be worn together. Shirt people, on the other hand, can easily go solo although they don’t mind being on top or bottom with another shirt as the case may be.

Sock people go their whole lives with a bad case of static cling. They find their match and, come hell or high water, stick to him or her. If they don’t wash after a couple of days they start to smell. On rare occasions, they come out of the dryer without their matching pair. It is one of those grand mysteries of life … where the other sock disappears off to. In fact there has been speculation of a mystical sock graveyard – akin to the mythical great elephant graveyard – where single socks go to die alone. They can be loud and garish, especially during holiday seasons, but are more naturally toned-down mono-chrome.

Shirt people are more solitary by nature. Give them an undershirt and they’re happy because the undershirt gets dirtier. They also don’t mind being covered by a jacket if it’s sexy or cool. But their natural state is just hanging out, chillin with their friends. They can be garish and loud or quiet and subdued. They can be pull-overs or all buttoned up. Oh, and they love to be ripped off if physical contact is involved.

So which are you … a sock person or a shirt person?

So I have a bad habit of taking a perfectly good poem and wrecking it with my imagination. My apologies to Billy Blake and his wonderful little ditty “The Tyger” (reprinted below for your reading pleasure.)

The Brytany
Brytany, Brytany, burning bright
In the nightclubs in plain sight,
What immoral hand or eye
Could feel up thy fearful symmetry?

In what deep fat-fryer lies?
Burnt food to show up on thy thighs?
With Kevin what kids doth thy sire?
What the band dare seize the liar?

And what boulder and what fart
Could pinch the nose – “PU’s” – of thy tart?
And when thy fart began to stink
What dread band and what dread lip-sync?

What the MC Hammer? What the Alice in Chains?
In what sternness was thy vain?
What the advil? What dread gasp
Dare its deadly voice rasp?

When the stars threw down their Spears
And watered heaven with their beers,
Did He test His work to pee?
Did He who ate the lamb roast thee?

Brytany, Brytany, burning bright
In the nightclubs in plain sight,
What immoral hand or eye
Could feel up thy fearful symmetry?

The Tyger
Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?