The dictionary defines "inanimate" as
"(1) not having the qualities associated with active, living organisms;
(2) not animated or energetic; dull; (3) belonging to the class of nouns that
stand for nonliving things."
We humans…living, animate beings…have a tendency
to refer to nonliving things such as a chair or table as "inanimate
objects,” inert and harmless. We label them thusly and then go on our way,
feeling superior, smug and safe.
Fellow humans, be warned! They have deliberately lulled
us into this false sense of security! We need to be aware that so-called inanimate
objects can be and often are dangerous! Before it's too late, we must pass laws
to protect ourselves!
Let me give you some examples of the behavior of out-of-control,
evil inanimate objects. If humans had committed these atrocities, they would have
been arrested, convicted and punished. But we have no legal recourse against
renegade inanimate objects.
A few years ago in the middle of a Kansas City ice storm, I stepped
out onto the back porch of the house where I'd lived for ten years. In all those
years, the back steps had done nothing but lie there quietly, never making the
slightest threatening movement until they saw their opportunity. The instant I
set foot on that top step, it slid right out from under me, whacked me on the
backside and shoved me down to the next step which repeated the process! Whack,
shove, whack, shove, whack, shove—all the way to the ground.
I will spare you the graphic details of my
bruises. Suffice to say, they were extensive and excruciating. Had another
person inflicted those injuries on me, he'd have been charged with assault and
battery and sent to jail. Those steps should have been sentenced to at least 5
years in maximum security with termites for guards.
Needless to say, I never trusted those steps again,
but my bicycle was a different story. We have always been great friends—going
for rides, soaking up the sunshine, smelling the honeysuckle. One morning my
bicycle and I were out for a ride, going really fast around a cul-de-sac,
leaning over, pretending to be a motorcycle…it loves that…when suddenly,
without any warning, my bicycle fell on its side, and the pavement sprang up
and viciously attacked my face.
It smashed my forehead, bloodied my nose, crushed
my lips and chin, and my head hurt for days.
So far as I could tell, that pavement sustained NO
injuries and, of course, received no punishment. It should have been sentenced
to life in one of those prisons where the inmates still crush rocks. Wouldn't
have been a very long life.
The bicycle claims it was a victim too. Said the
sand tripped it. It did sustain some scratches, and it has exhibited no violent
tendencies since that time. So, for the bicycle, a suspended sentence and another
chance.
My face had barely recovered from this incident
when I needed to get my Christmas decorations out of the attic. The only way to
get into that attic was to drag a ladder across the garage floor, center it over
the small opening and climb up. Ladders are notoriously untrustworthy, so I was
cautious climbing up the ladder, but I totally trusted that attic. I let it keep
my stuff. That’s the ultimate in trust.
I had a box of Christmas decorations in my arms,
one foot still in the attic and the other on the top rung of the ladder when the
two of them separated from each other, plunging me straight down to the floor
below.
As I tumbled downward, my only thought was,
"Oh, lordy, I hope I don't land on my face this time."
The garage floor took pity on me and only smacked
against the more padded areas of my body.
The death sentence for both the attic and the
ladder. Conspiracy to commit murder. The floor…a few months in rehab and
enforced separation from criminal influences.
After being so cruelly betrayed, I sold the condo that
harbored that attic and moved into a house several miles away. It's a nice
house. Hardwood floors, sunroom, and a lovely storm door of heavy etched glass.
I liked that door from the first time I entered that house. Apparently the
feeling was not mutual.
I had some furniture delivered and propped the
storm door open for the delivery guys. When they were finished, I went out on
the porch, undid the latch and started back inside. That's when this lovely
door—which had never done anything except sit in the doorway, preening itself
in the sunshine—suddenly showed its true violent nature. Instead of gliding
gently closed, it rushed forward, grabbed my ankle and tore a chunk out of my
heel.
Copious bleeding, excruciating pain and eight
stitches in the emergency room.
I would have liked to do to that door what it did
to me…smash it! Tear a chunk out of it! But it's an expensive door. And—did I
mention?—quite lovely.
Oh, dear. Does this mean…I'm harboring a criminal?
Perhaps this would not, after all, be a good time
to press for legislation against the crimes of inanimate objects. Let me
redraft my proposal and get back to you.
Terrific blog, Sally☺
ReplyDeleteToo funny, and too true. When I change lightbulbs, I have my cell phone on me, the landline on the floor, and the front door unlocked . . . just in case. In icy weather, I remind everyone, including myself, to "walk like a penguin," making sure the foot moving forward has a secure spot before beginning to move the other one. I'd sue the driveway damages, but they don't really have much in the way of money.
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