Cop-out

Cop-out: (n) act or instance of copping out; reneging; evasion

I would like you to join me today in the world of make-believe. It is a place where balloons never lose their air, marshmallows always toast brown instead of black and gumdrops won’t stick together.

It shouldn’t be a realm of make-believe, but because we live in a time when political speak, campaign language and Washingtonian wording has gained predominance, the common man, woman and child have begun to believe they can talk themselves out of anything.

It is becoming more and more usual for people to offer excuses, explanations or pathos than to simply answer a question.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Our new heroes are those we say we despise—because politicians and lawyers always register near the bottom on the list of favored occupations.

Yet when confronted with the simple question, “Did you do this?” almost every American citizen, and dare I say, perhaps worldwide, begins to launch into a story, as if taken over by the spirit of Stephen King.

There was a time when we used to believe that elaborating on our failures to try to make them look better was a cop-out.

We hated cop-outs.

We despised excuses for foolish mistakes.

Now we anticipate it. When someone is asked, “Did you eat the last Oreo?” we brace ourselves to hear a three-part series, with a potential sequel to follow half-an-hour later.

It has become acceptable to offer the cop-out, even though we continue to roll our eyes and absolutely reject anyone who does it.

The answer to the question is, “Yes, I ate the last Oreo.” Or, “No, I didn’t.”

None of us need to know the story line of the Oreo, how much it means to you to eat one, or how you are innocent because you were unaware that it was the last one available.

In my opinion, coping out should be so illegal that you should be able to call a cop when you hear it.


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Achne

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter AAchne: (n.) small, dry, one-seeded fruit that does not open to release the seed.

Small. Dry. One seed. Won’t open. Doesn’t release.

You can imagine where my mind goes. Or maybe you can’t.

Having lived for a spell on this planet–blessed to be an American citizen and a person of faith, I do occasionally despair about how much we’ve allowed the fruitfulness of our beliefs to dry up and for the seed of newness to rot inside us instead of being released to grow.

I don’t think I’d be interested in seeing this particular fruit, would you? I suppose it has a function. I guess somebody can crack it open, rip the seed out, plant it in the ground and make more of the little dried-up boogers.

  • I’m tired of things remaining small because they’ve dried up and died around the seed that could have made them grow.
  • I’m tired of seeing, in my lifetime, freedom change into debate, which transformed into the tiny, dried-up kernel called political parties.
  • I’m sickened by a spirituality of Jesus which became the church and now is closed up in the sarcophagus of religion.

Maybe things have to get small, dry up and die in order for something else to live. But it doesn’t change the sorrow in my soul–to see the death of great ideas because we’re afraid to release the seed.

I hope I’m never an achne. Of course, there’s little chance I’ll ever be small. I work very hard not to dry up. And I never keep my seed on the inside. I’m casting it all the time into the earth around me, even though much of the ground is stony–and it gets choked by the thistles and thorns.