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Bustin up a Chiffonier Miss May Ella was out in the front yard, vigorously applying her hatchet to a piece of furniture. Her father axed her what she was about. “I’m bustin up this chiffonier (she pronounced it SHIFF-uh-robe), Paw.” “I see that,” her father said, nodding his head and scratching his scruffy chin. “Couldn’t help but wonder why.” “B’cause,” she explained like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I stumped my toe on it and it hurt like all git out!” “So what do you hope to accomplish by convertin that there heirloom into kindlin, May Ella?” “I’m gittin rid of the problem! What’s it look like?” “It appears you are placin responsibility on an inanimate object, blamin it for your careless action.” “That thang hurt my toe!” “And you played no part in it?” “No, sir. I was just mindin my own business.” “And the chiffonier reached out and whacked your toe?” “Dang it, Paw, now you’re makin me feel stupid.” “Not without your permission. Other people are no more responsible for how you feel than that chiffonier is for your sore toe, or a piano is for a sour note.” “I liked your old friends better, Paw. Ever since you started hangin around with them checker-playin philosopher types you don’t make a lick of sense.” “Well, May Ella, it’s like the feller said: The unexamined life ain’t worth doodley squat.”
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