If one were to present a rabbit with both a rubberized carrot chew-toy and a lovingly-sugared, home-made carrot-cake, the poor bunny would confuse itself to such a degree that the entirety of its decision-making processes would be flushed from its brain like bacon-grease down the pork-fat-gilded-lines of an improperly-used toilet.
If one were to present the masses with convoluted, otiose, imprudent, impetuous, irresponsible but exciting solutions to age-old questions with an indifference rivaling that of a metropolitan-pigeon, the widespread panic, abysmally-brief introspection and universal bewailing would be akin to a rotted skunk-corpse fished out of a lake of coyote-diarrhea, thrown into a recently-fertilized, hyper-odiferous mushroom-farm, and found by Nosar, King of the Land of Smells:
The instant shutdown of all working physical senses.
The probability of Ryantology grinding into the collective-psyche like the teeth of a tethered, sleeping, criminally-insane mental-patient is about equal to a four-year-old child surviving three nights in the wilderness with two handfuls of honey, which is, mathematically-speaking, one in ten.
Still, should the world be bedazzled by the blinking lights and velvety-feel of Ryantology, however late, chances go up considerably that I, myself, would be treated to a deaf, dumb and blind populace, walking dizzily in front of idiot type-A personalities in careening SUVs that have appointments to keep though the world has collapsed; to woebegone children eating dirt, dandelions and other children due to a complete lack of smell or taste; to all manner of whimpering and kvetching that is audible to no-one but I.
Indemnification is a necessary foulness in a world of unspeakable putridity; if the good doctor leaves his stethoscope, and, possibly, his wristwatch in your open wound before ultimately deciding to sew you up anyway, well, them’s the breaks. Maybe a return visit will help, or maybe you move on to a less-audacious, more self-effacing medical facility.
The double-edged sword of Ryantology is, indeed, a bitter paradox...and a haven for metaphors mixed and similes unbound.
