MacCallum

Asians are cool. They really look like they know what they’re doing. I wish I knew what I was doing. I wish I had a black uniform. And I wish I had someone to stand still while I hit them. They wouldn’t have to be Asian, but it would be nice if they were.

SC legislators were going to designate collards as the state vegetable, but now have put that on hold so that “other vegetables can be considered.”

Apparently corn got an earful of that and nearly popped, while beans were green with envy, and tomatoes wanted more time to produce a birth certificate proving they are indeed vegetables.

Meanwhile we have one of the highest unemployment numbers in the country, and a budget deficit that hangs like a sword over our collective heads. Nice work.

I clean the house like Bruce Lee broke ribs. And noses, and teeth, and expectations.

But like Bruce, I always try to choose the path of peace first, which to extend this metaphor would represent not getting provoked when the house is a wreck. In my otherwise purpose-driven life, I practice a form of meditation about an untidy house. That is, I put my consciousness on a plane where random socks and dirty dishes cannot reach me. I step lightly over piles of clothes and continue my own personal journey toward enlightenment which includes the evening news and Jeopardy.

But just like Bruce I have my limits. When he hit his limits, he in turn hit everything around him.

And he did it in such a deft and elegant manner, that it seemed almost like a dance. A vengeful, masculine, painful dance. Injustice balanced by carnage, thugs and furniture wishing they had known their place. And that is the way I clean the house, moving with purpose and power, hitting everything, teaching inanimate objects and dirt a lesson they will never forget, leaving a swath of orderly spaces and clean surfaces in my wake.

I wonder if Bruce had a maid.