Critique

Critique: (v) to review or analyze

I can’t remember exactly which adjective it is that is thrust in front of “critique” to make it bearable.

Is it beneficial? Helpful? Eye-opening?

Whatever word it is they force in at gun point as a prefix to “critique” to rationalize the fussiness is absolutely ridiculous.

The best way to get along with human beings is to realize they are human.

Then have a working comprehension of what that means.

Basically, we are capable of almost anything if instructed well and encouraged. And we can be murderous if someone wishes to discourage us or give us a critique.

Although we are taught to thank people for their insightful comments, the human heart is geared for praise, which is why it is so susceptible to deception. I suppose we could work on changing that and perhaps we should.

But this is my belief about commenting on people’s efforts, work, art or lives–I call it the fish and bones approach.

Just like you do when you decide to dine on seafood after having hooked one on your line, you carefully pick out the meat and you meticulously leave behind the bones.

It takes a little longer, but it’s better than swallowing the bones or throwing away the entire fish in disgust because it dared to include them.

The same is true with people.

Living on this earth at the same time as you, people have the right and privilege of being handled just as gently as we do our fish dinner.

Find what they do that is meaty.

Leave the bones.

And maybe pretend they aren’t even there.

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

 


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Communion

Communion: (n) the service of Christian worship at which bread and wine are consecrated and shared.

I get the same sensation when I go to Red Lobster with a friend and he or she insists, with a giggle, as the cheddar bay biscuits arrive, and they gleefully take one from the basket, that, “This is what Red Lobster is all about!”

I nod (knowing that soon I will probably nod off.)

Red Lobster is not about the cheddar bay biscuits. It’s about the seafood.

Just like baseball games are not about the peanuts and the Cracker Jacks. There’s a ball, a bat and a game.

And marriage is not about starting a family. It’s really about how much you enjoy having sex with this one person and hope you can keep it up for the rest of your life while you have a family.

I find myself going to church from time to time–reluctantly.

I don’t like that about me. It seems jaded. In this season of agnosticism it smacks of the predictable.

But you see, in church there’s just too much emphasis on the cheddar bay biscuits, the Cracker Jacks and the family.

Many of them center their whole agenda around communion–a symbolistic representation of the blood and body of Jesus Christ, which he gave for the sins of mankind.

It’s disconcerting to me.

First there’s the thought that I am such a piece of shit that God had to kill His own kid to try to make up for my buffoonery.

Then there’s the notion that a dynamic spirit which walked in the flesh among us for thirty-three years only gained significance in the last few hours that he hung, as an alleged criminal, on a cross.

What an insult to all things loving and eternal.

Yet if you lodge an objection, somehow or another you become apostate–which, if you don’t know what that means, is the religious system’s way of telling you that you don’t belong.

The truth of the matter is, I admire the hell out of Jesus.

Long before he bled, he led me into an understanding of how we might begin to see God’s will done on Earth as it is in heaven.

 

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Clam

Clam: (n) a marine bivalve mollusk with shells of equal size.

I guess any decent mollusk would consider it a home invasion. After all, you have this perfectly wonderful shell, which should be impenetrable.

So someone comes along, boils your ass, insults you by throwing in spices because you have no flavor of your own, and then takes a knife to crack you open to
steal your life force.

Pretty much of a horror story if you live in the ocean.

I have eaten clams many times. Perhaps I should apologize. I’ve even taken one of those pointy objects they offer you to crack them open, making me feel like I’m some sort of “sea-farin’ man.”

I have two opinions on clams:

  1. They’re too small
  2. They have no flavor unless you dip them in a sauce.

So would I get the same sensation if I took a piece of bread and dipped it into an excellent cocktail sauce as if I dunked a clam in the same sauce?

I think so.

So let me review: for some reason we decide to invade the privacy of a reclusive creature who has clammed up, boil it to death, break open its shell and eat it, even though we know it’s not particularly satisfying.

Vindictive sons-of-a-bitches.

 

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