Tuesday, June 19, 2012

One and Done

There’s a new lexical player in town. And much like a medieval mace, it’s crude and blunt, but oddly effective. Welcome to the Thunderdome, Done.

Done was like the sword in the stone, waiting for just the right tiny hands to unsheathe it and harness its powers. Bub now wields Done with the reckless zeal of a Balkan warlord. To eliminate any misinterpretation, he throws in an enthusiastic hand sweep that no blackjack dealer would dare hit on.

Done, like so many others, got his start on the hardscrabble streets of Rejected Foodstuffs. Carrots? Done. It then got generalized into bathtime, toys, etc. Done was demonstrative, definite and final. You did not argue with Done, or you yourself would be Done.

Then Done got legs. Done started wearing wife-beaters and jaywalking and smoking Black and Milds. Sitting at the computer one day, Bub waltzes in, assesses the situation, and announces, ‘Done.’ He wasn’t doing a damn thing; my computer time, it seemed, was Done. I put on some Black Keys the other day, Done. Try to finish the crossword, Done. Enthusiastic hand sweep.

Done had magical powers.

What a simple, brilliant concept. Basically anything that annoys you, you can vanquish with a single syllable. Consider:

You’re on the bus, it’s hot. The kind of heat that even flies say fuck it. A dense aroma of French fries marinated in B.O. permeates. And there’s That Guy, the one subjecting the masses to his crap-pop because he’s too cheap or arrogant to buy headphones. You walk over to him with your swampy pits and just one word: Done.

Sir, do you know how fast you were going? Yes, officer, I do. I clocked myself at Done miles per hour.

You open the door, walk right on to the squash court, mid-point. But we have a reservation! Chad protests. Yeah, well I’ve got a Done. Pardon me, fellas.

You’re watching the NBA finals. Wife sits down.
W: Who’s winning?
M: It’s tied.
W: Hmm. So we really need to talk about baby names.
M: Ehhhhh, Done. Done! (Enthusiastic hand sweep)

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