Since I am still wallowing in my butter kick, it triggered an introduction to a music review I once read. A review which really opened my eyes to the possibilities of irony.
Now I present you with the wise words of journalist Matt LeMay:
Irony is kind of like butter. If something seems too dull or sugary, you put some butter on it to give its taste some semblance of body and depth. The butter tastes good, so you put on more butter. Soon, whatever tastes accompany the butter cease to matter. You just want more of that butter. Yummy, yummy butter.
You refuse to acknowledge the value of anything that is non-buttery, insisting that it's trite and unsophisticated. "Sugar is for kids," you shout, "I want my goddamn butter!" You begin to hate the sugar-eaters in all their smug simplicity. Everything you eat, and everything you cook, simply must have butter. It becomes a way of life.
But it's not long before things start to go awry. Your friends get sick of you always forcing them to eat your buttery treats. While you can't get enough of it, it makes them feel sick and heavy. But you don't care—they just don't understand the complex texture and full, rich body of butter.
Friendless, you begin to sink into a state of depression. All those years immersed in butter have finally caught up with you, and its heaviness is beginning to wear on you. You've gained hundreds of pounds, and you can slowly feel your arteries hardening. Alone, bloated, and miserable, you die. You fucking die.
Irony hasn't been clinically proven to lead to arteriosclerosis, but it does hold true that it's best when used sparingly and with great skill.
You may now be asking at this point: What disc was LeMay reviewing?
To which I must respond: Does it even fucking matter after that wonderfully composed snippet of literary brilliance!