When it comes to cliches, what goes around comes around.
And keeps coming around until you’re not supposed to question any more the veracity and depth of the pithy little saying.
For example, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Hasn’t anyone ever stopped and considered that this is a troublesome set of words? Does it really mean that what is good for a man is equally good for a woman? If so, that is surely right royal bollocks.
There is proof now in the streets of the United Kingdom where women have got it into their heads that there is something charming and pleasurable about drinking as much as you can as quickly as you can and then emptying the contents of your stomach into the middle of a busy nighttime sidewalk.
This is an activity good for men because it renders them incapable of impregnating an unsuspecting woman, the resultant lack of stupid offspring raising the level of intelligence in the United Kingdom.
It is clearly an activity not so good for women as it leaves them prone on cold, wet stone with their miniskirts perched rather too high for their rose-colored g-strings to remain invisible.
How about this one: he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.
Actually, Pol Pot died of a heart attack, while living in a hut, specially created for him after he lost power.
Stalin had a stroke after a particularly sumptuous dinner with, among others, the United Nations shoetapper himself, Nikita Kruschev.
And the Count of Monte Cristo, swashbuckler though he may have been, didn’t die at all. He jumped on a ship and sailed off with his lover.
However, the cliche that has begun to affect my ability to resist ekeing out physical violence on my fellow man over the last few weeks, is the very classic ” it takes one to know one.”
Of course, one first heard this gem when very small.
” You’re a smelly turd.”
” Takes one to know one.”
” You’re an ugly, fat pig.”
” Takes one to know one.”
Such were the conversations of my childhood. They haven’t really changed all that much. The other day, I made something of an observation to one of my fellow men. Oh, look. I was in a bad mood. And I might have suggested he was a lying, cheating, snivel-faced, potty-mouthed pillock.
Something along those lines, anyway.
” Takes one to know one,” was his reply.
” No, it doesn’t, you lying, cheating, snivel-faced, potty-mouthed pillock” somehow weren’t the words that came to mind in response.
No words came at all.
What are you supposed to say to “takes one to know one”?
” You can say that again”? Or perhaps ” you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours”?
If it really did take one to know one, then we would have had to wait for Stalin to tell us that Hitler really wasn’t a very nice chap. (As it is, we had to wait for Steven Spielberg.)
We would have had to wait for Mark McGuire to tell us that Barry Bonds is an extraordinary record-breaking hitter who would never talk about the past.
And perhaps no one would have yet revealed that Kevin Federline is a uniquely (and equally) talented singer, bon viveur and leech.
If it really did take one to know one, Mary-Kate Olsen would have said something about Ugly Betty by now.
In the real world, knowledge of others is in fact in very short supply. Unless you’re those two chaps at Google, who are steadily compiling a list of all our preferences and desires.
Isn’t it strange we know so little about them?
Ah, you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube, can you?