When the shit hits the fan, you don’t want to be in the room. Fact. Well, some people do. Rational people don’t. You want to land on your feet. You want to hit the ground running. You want to be far, far away from the blast radius. No rational person wants someone else’s shit on them. Anywhere. Fact.
It’s simple on Why. Nobody wants to hang around someone with shit on them. It doesn’t matter if it’s a tiny little smudge, or smeared all over your body like body lotion. Any scent of shit stings the nostril’s and conveys the general filthiness of the person of whom it’s radiating from. Conversations would get quiet. Awkward at best. Everyone would be searching for that special cue where you know it’s ok to just walk off. Moral of the story: Don’t be around when the shit hits the fan.
Like most of the mindless babble I type, by now you’re probably wondering where I’m going with this. Some of you, some smart ones, may even have picked up on my knack for the Double Entendre, and are searching for the meaning behind the shit hitting the fan. And like previous posts, it’s doubtful this one is any different.
Or maybe, just maybe, I could actually be talking about shit hitting the fan, and how insanely gross that would be. But that would be too easy. Too simple. Not clever. Not fun. Boring. It may be an easier read, but too wasteful an effort to write. So I’ll spare you something 2-dimensional in replacement for a few more dimensions. So try to keep up.
The blast radius of any shit hitting the fan is vital information for your survival. It all depends on the dimensions of the fan itself. Where it was purchased is a good indicator of its’ effectiveness. A fan purchased at Home Depot is a real killer. The blast radius of such a fan could paint the walls brown and leave no survivors. Beware. A fan from K-Mart on the other hand would give you more time to leave the room. You could even be at the door or one leg out the window and still survive. It’s possible. So, take notice of the quality of the fan, that’s Rule #1.
Rule #2 is there is no Rule #2. There’s no need, because Rule #1 is about as much common sense required for survival. Ideally, you can’t exactly screw up Rule #1, however the limited intelligence of humanity never ceases to surprise me, so at times a handicap sticker is needed; a “Get Out Of Jail” free card for being stupid. We all are in some moments. Some of us just have more of those moments than others. So maybe Rule #1.5 could be “Have Less of Those Moments”. Now that we’ve established the importance of not being stupid, we’ll get back to my point: The Fan.
The quality of the fan is the real danger. A far-reaching, thick and sturdy fan is disastrous for anyone in the room. We’re talking an F-5, with winds well beyond 261 miles an hour. A 10.0 magnitude earthquake; Nothing survives. This powerful fan can cover everyone, and everything in the room from head to toe in thick, juicy shit. Corn off the cob. Pale white girls won’t have to go to tanning beds if they’re in the room, they’ll get their bronze on here. And once you’re coated, you’re coated. There’s no going anywhere.
Covered head to toe in shit, that’s a long lasting effect. You can shower, you can bathe, you can run through the car-wash. As I mentioned before: one small smudge of shit, anywhere on your body, and you’ll sting the nostrils of anyone within a 10-foot radius of you. You’re tainted goods now; a dented can on the shelf, a bride in a yellow dress; everyone knows (they can smell the shit on you).
And it’s all because you didn’t pay attention to Rule #1 (Taking notice to the quality of The Fan). You could’ve been spared, saved to another world, a dreamy existence in the sky. To be fair, being covered in shit isn’t the end of you, just a temporary cock-block that will remain locked and keyed until you wash yourself enough to really get all the dark crevasses of your body spotless and clean.
So be mindful of the room you’re in, and the quality of fan. It’s just that simple. And if need-be, use Bleach.
