samuel jackson, lisa pietsch

**Warning: If you are easily offended by foul language or juvenile humor, just stop reading and don’t come back**

There is a phrase people throw around quite a bit these days that really makes me crazy.  It is a phrase that tells me the speaker’s brain is lodged somewhere in their nether region.  Every time I hear, or read, the phrase “It is what it is”.  A little scene plays out in my mind where I’m having coffee with Samuel L. Jackson and whatever idiot had the nerve to use the hated phrase.

Step into my mind (but stay close)…

Imagine if you will, you’re sitting in a diner.  It might be the little restaurant that was robbed in Pulp Fiction or the place Vin Diesel woke up in XXX.  You’re sitting there in a booth with Samuel L. Jackson, the most righteous man in America, and another fellow discussing whatever you were discussing when this other fellow says “It is what it is”.

This is how I’d like to think this little tea party might go down.

Mr. Jackson’s face goes slack.  “What is that?”

A blank look washes over the other fellow’s face and he shrugs.  “It is what it is.”

I smile and take a sip of my coffee.  Here it comes.

Mr. Jackson leans in over his short stack of pancakes and squints at the other fellow who shrinks just a bit from his former pompous upright position.  “Maybe you could enlighten a mutherfucker because, in my ignorance, I don’t know what the fuck it is.”

In an effort to shake free of the conversation, the other fellow waves a hand as though brushing away a fly.  “It is what it is, man.  That’s all we need to say.”

“No.  I think more needs to be said.  I consider myself a fairly intelligent man but when some mutherfucker tells me ‘it is what it is’, I find myself wondering what the fuck I missed because, for the mutherfuckin’ life of me, I still do not know what the fuck it is.  So tell me, mutherfucker, WHAT.  THE.  FUCK.  IS.  IT?”

The other fellow stands up.  “I’m out of here.”

“Sit the fuck down!  We ain’t done here yet.”

I smile at the waitress while she warms up my coffee before scurrying away.

The fellow sits down in the booth, a smaller, more timid version of his formerly puffed-up self.

“Now you made a profound statement.  ‘It is what it is’ is some deep shit.  You now have the social responsibility to impart that wisdom on the rest of us.”

I nod in agreement as Mr. Jackson continues.

“Share your wisdom with an ignorant mutherfucker and please, oh, please, tell me what the fuck it is?”

“It’s just a figure of speech.”

“Oh, it’s a figure of speech.”  Mr. Jackson wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin and places it over what is left of his short stack.  “So, let me get this straight.  You don’t know what the fuck it is and you, being a bright mutherfucker, decided to fall back on a figure of speech so you wouldn’t look so stupid in the conversation.”


“So what you’re telling me is you’re a stupid mutherfucker who has his head up his ass and when the conversation gets too deep and you can’t breathe, what with your head being up your ass and all, you fall back on a figure of speech so you can look like a profound and righteous mutherfucker and you say shit like ‘it is what it is’ and ‘whatever’.  Is that about right?”

The fellow’s eyes start twitching to find the nearest exit but never meet Mr. Jackson’s eyes or mine.

Mr. Jackson stands and throws a $20 bill down to cover breakfast.  “We are done here.”

I smile and go back to drinking my coffee while the other fellow scurries out the back door.

I just love my internal Samuel L. Jackson.

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