Next stop: Tchotchke

The tchotchke derives from the Yiddish, circa 1971, otherwise known as the trinket.

I hate the tchotchke and all that it represents. In fact, I categorically reject the tchotchke.

I didn't always hate the tchotchke. Until today, I had contained my distaste for the tchotchke.

Today was black indeed.

I attended what is commonly called a trade show. The origins of the trade show go way back and frankly I don't care enough to look it up. This particular trade show was for various tchotchkes and tchotchke hawkers.

I have visited hell.

It is full of tchotchkes.

You are well aware I reject clutter. Picture a trade show full of clutter. This is from whence the tchotchke was issued.

Pens! Mousepads! Golf shirts! Cheese boards! Stupid thing you throw on the wall and watch it climb down! Clocks! Staplers! Chocolate with your logo on it! Post-its in various shapes and sizes! Paperweights! Catalogs of all this and more!

Now a tchotchke on its own might actually bring a small amount of joy. That stress ball shaped like a brain came in handy now and again when I imagined whose brain I was squeezing the stupidity out of. However when you get more than one tchotchke in a room, it's akin to a gang bang. Everywhere you look, there are more and more tchotchkes. They breed like killer rabbits -- they appear cute and useful but they are demons, lords of darkness, minions of Satan himself.

I am now imposing a ban on all tchotchkes. Should you even mention the word tchotchke, I will throw down my Bruce Lee high kick all over this planet.

For serious.

Stop the tchotchke in its wicked path of destruction. Before it's too late.