“What’s in a name? That which we call a roseWell, not necessarily.
By any other name would smell as sweet.”
- Romeo and Juliet, Act II, scene ii
Yesterday morning I heard the story of a particularly acrimonious divorce. At one point in the proceedings, so it seems, the husband had sent his soon-to-be ex-wife a rose as a token of his Non-Esteem.
The rose was not just any garden-variety rose. This one was painstakingly hand-carved in precise artistic detail...from a human turd.
True story, or so it was presented unto me. And it is a source of wonderment. It would have been bad enough had the guy simply wrapped a Cleveland Steamer in butcher paper and stuck it in the mail, but geez, how much do you have to despise someone to pick up a piece of shit and whittle on it?