I punched a wall yesterday. The wall upset me because it was there, and the presence of the wall means there’s less space for me, so I punched that damn thing right in its side.
But that damned wall– do you know what it did? It refused to bend. It just stayed there all stiff. And it broke my hand.
At the exact same moment I launched my brutal assault on the wall, the wall counter-attacked my hand with a viciousness that was shocking and appalling to my normally quiet apartment.
Again we see the inherent violence and savagery of walls.
Now, I’m happy to acknowledge that I probably shouldn’t have punched that wall. But there are many, many sides to this. And the wall bears equal blame for breaking my hand.
I own my home. I have documents proving my right to be there. The wall? No such documents.
Let’s also not forget the other parties to this incident. The couch failed to intervene. The ceiling fan just watched. And the floor failed to cushion my fall. You’d think a floor would buckle a bit, you know?
So I accept a portion of the blame. I really do. But I’m just part of the story. The wall and its shifty cohorts– the couch, the fan, the floor– these are the real aggressors.
I know this won’t sound “politically correct,” but how much longer can we ignore the creeping tyranny of these scheming, lazy walls? Every day walls are taking over spaces where a proud white man could stand. Who will fight for my right to punch them?
John Clark will be tireless in his pursuit of justice.