John Smistad

Man's Inhumanity to Formica by John Smistad Inert yet solid with harm meant to none. Lo, existence solely predicated upon accommodation, assistance. Ever available, at dogged disposal. Perpetually prepared to serve and support. A true source of efficiency whenever called upon to provide. Yet, despite this unwavering nobility and gritty utility, the prevailing perspective seems steeped in callous disregard. Cavalier condescension. Preposterous? Poppycock? Sheer folly? May consideration be committed, then, to the following crimes against such requisite composite. Blurs of burgundy born of beef, forever faded but memories left to linger like ghosts among the Ginsu grooves. And these canals cut constantly yet casually by such merciless marketing media merchandise harbor a litany of other liquids most offensive to the observer. Among them, but certainly not limited to the following, are an ongoing onslaught of essence extracted from harvest, the scarlet stream seeping from the scar of a slice, the non-stop nefariousness of needles, nun chucks, nasty nicks and such, or the callous crushing of cubes clubbed by the barbarous bashing of a ball-peen. And must we even explore the heinous humps of a tot's tush prior to the wiping of the waste, or the hormonal heat born of the humping of humans no longer humble nor capable of chaste choosing. Or, and perhaps most malicious, the regurgitation of rancid, ribald and raw remains of imbecilic imbibing born of brash but brainless bravado. And yet, despite all that is thrust upon and among it, the surface stands stalwart, strong, sturdy. Steeped in stamina. Solemn. Yet unceremoniously sacrosanct. Man. Formica. It seemed like such a sweet symbiosis. What in the world went wrong......man?