"Sure." I said reaching for the salt. "But you know what really ticks me off? Why do pseudo-intellectuals keep insisting that fans are a symbol of death? They're not! I've done a hundred internet searches and there's no indication anywhere to justify that nonsense. And yet sobbing critics are soiling themselves over how incredible the use of fans in the movie Angel Heart was. Yeah, they had some fans, SO WHAT? I have a ceiling fan in my damned living room! Does that mean I'm going to die. Don't answer that, Paulie. I'm still young enough to kick your ass. Anyway, they were all over the fans in the John Kennedy episode of Witchblade as well. Very in your face about it, in fact. But they were just cribbing off of Angel Heart who was cribbing off Jacob's Ladder who robbed at gunpoint every paranoid religious fan fic of the previous two decades. And what does it all mean? What the hell does it all mean? Nothing. Not a damned thing! Well, except for the fact that the lazy bastards didn't bother to do a simple internet search to discover the oh so clever imagery they were hoping to achieve with their stupid fans was in fact null and void! Stupid, STUPID Hollywood writers!"
I sighed, then beamed at everyone else sitting around our Thanksgiving table with the salt still clutched in my hand.
"That's ... cool, grandpa," Myra said gently, "but I still need you to pass me the salt."
"Oh," I said, handing it over.
Edited by Antilla, 06 February 2010 - 03:19 PM.