In fact, if irony were a tangible commodity, I'd very likely have reached a point, at this point in the life, where my private collection of said commodity would be so mountainous that I'd qualify for a segment on that reality show that portrays the bizarre life of hoarders.
Because, Lord knows, we zany humans might have to suffer the occasional shortage of petroleum products or lawn nourishing water, but there will be irony to spare for every girl and boy until, and most likely well past, the end of time.
Meanwhile, along with my admittedly sardonic infatuation with the "I" word, I find myself ever enjoying one of irony's first cousins, that ironic assemblage of words Webster defined as an "oxymoron".
Jumbo shrimp.
Military intelligence.
Free plus shipping and handling.
Annoying hip hop.
Wait. Sorry, that one's redundant.
And what I have begun to believe might be the granddaddy, or mother given the proper seasonal slant, of all oxymorons.
Common courtesy.
I came across this little human interest morsel while web snacking this morning and realized it pretty much met all the criteria I've established for inclusion in my stellar stash of the ironic/oxymoronic.
Give it a quick read, if you will, and I'll wait here, cataloging my collection.
http://sports.yahoo.com/nhl/blog/puck_daddy/post/How-Lightning-fan-outwitted-petty-HOA-over-playo?urn=nhl-wp4283
Now, while, on the surface, it might appear that this guy's efforts to "show them" a little of that indomitable American spirit of "never say die" is as charming, even patriotic, as all get out, there looms for those of us with the aforementioned inclination to see the irony of things, a subtext that hits on both the ironic and oxymoronic cylinders.
First, the ironic.
This example of a cry for freedom to be who we want to be, where we want to be, when we want to be without giving a hoot in hell about what others want to be, where they want to be, when they want to be.
In this instance, of course, the conflict between neighbors who share literal, if, obviously, not philosophical, common ground.
Put less verbosely and more "common manly"..."It's a free country and if I want to stick a hockey team sign in my yard or hang a hockey team banner on my garage, it's my American right to do just that....whether it pisses you off or not."
Conveniently sidestepping any responsibility for simply being a good neighbor, abiding by the wishes of the majority and, in short, playing well with others.
And let's not overlook the additional, bonus, irony here, by the way.
Expressing one's "right as a free American" to plant a sign or hang a banner whether or not it totally ignores the American bedrock principle of abiding by the wishes of the majority.
The writer of the news story seems to want to portray this guy as some kind of role model of revolutionary spirit, with the heart of a maverick, the cunning of a master tactician and the courage of his deeply rooted convictions.
William Wallace with his face painted the Tampa Bay colors.
"Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeedooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!"
Maybe.
Then again, maybe this guy is just an asshat with a team jersey, a fridge full of twenty four packs and a "fuck you" attitude when it comes to having any consideration for anybody living within a hockey puck's throw of his castle.
My guess is the latter.
Of course, it's possible that my perspective is poisoned by the current distraction of the asshat living next door who is perpetually expressing his own rights as an American by flooding the neighborhood with the obviously overloud, rectum rattling lowest of the low end frequencies of the latest three note, one trick pony sound of his personal favorite hip hop performers.
Common courtesy.
A quality that may, in fact, have shot to number one on the oxymoron chart.
Being, as it is, a quality that both Mister Hockey Puck and Mister Hip Hoppin The Hood have so courageously demonstrated is no longer courteous.
Or common.
How's that for irony?
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