Sometimes I don’t want to be nice.
Sometimes I feel like kicking a tree or yelling at my noisy neighbour. There
are days when I’m in shopping centres waiting in a long queue to be served and
I swear I am going to scream.
But I don’t. Because I am nice. Also, it
wouldn’t make me feel any better, in fact, I know I’d feel worse. Plus I’d make
someone else’s day take a downward turn. And that’s not cool. People have
always told me that I’m nice. I’d like to keep it that way.
Which reminds me. A friend once declared
that he hated nice biscuits. How can that be, you ask, when the very point of
biscuits is that they are, well, nice. Did that mean that he only liked mean
biscuits? No, he meant to say ‘Nice’ as in the French town which sounds like
‘niece’. Instead he said ‘Nice’ which rhymes with rice. I’m not sure if Arnotts
are aware of the confusion which this biscuit creates.
I wonder if Nice biscuits ever get sick of
the pronunciation confusion around their name? Maybe while they sit innocently
on a plate, waiting to be eaten, they’re looking forward to dropping crumbs and
making a mess just to aggravate someone for calling them Nice instead of Nice.
‘Merde’, the biscuits would yell, ‘I’m French, don’t insult me or I’ll cut
you.’
Well, I guess it’s OK to be nice. It’s what
keeps the wheels of our society oiled. And it means that you get to have
friends and birthday presents and other nice stuff.
Just don’t mess with the biscuits, I’m
telling you, they’ve got issues.
(P.S. I’m not implying that the French
swear and want to cut people when they’re angry, it’s just the biscuits
talking.)
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