More of "Why I Hate Wicker" by Terry Taylor

When my wife and I were first married, we were the recipients of some free wicker furniture, compliments of relatives who clearly had experienced the same wicker curse I describe in this writing. We were poor so we took it. I had no idea what we were in for with this thatched hell on wobbly, woven legs. I walked in one day and sat down on this wicker chair and it just chewed into me like a pit bull at Mr. Vick's house.

Wicker doesn't age well. It gets loose in it's senior years and human skin is tempted to ease down into the little crevices and once the wicker lures in your epidermis, it clamps down like a gator's wet dream. Wicker not only will pinch the fire and Jesus Jackson out of you, it loves to snatch tufts of hair too. It shags clothes as hungrily as it goes for any other nasty bits. I made the naked mistake of leaning on a wicker table in our bathroom (the wicker accomplice of the aforementioned chair) as I was getting into the shower years ago. Let's just say I had to sweet talk that thing into giving me back some things I knew I would need later in life. I coaxed and eased and pleaded until I was free and still have little wicker teeth marks where the sun don't shine....

I will never own a piece of wicker furniture as long as I live. If I go into a furniture store and see some wicker, I leave. If I visit friends who have wicker furniture, they instantly become dead to me. Wicker is that serious in my book. You avoid wicker like bad cheese. You want bad luck? Black cats and ladders can't hold a stack of Stephen King novels to a single, scrawny wicker stool.

I saw a guy in a poolside restaurant once in Florida (which is, by the way, the national headquarters of wicker furniture). Why such a nice state in all other respects continues to be hoodwinked by wicker is a mystery to me. Anyway, this guy sits down on a wicker stool in the bar. I knew it was going bad the minute his butt hit the seat. His eyes tightened. His lips pursed. The pain flowed from that wicker like a jellyfish attack, the wicker tentacles racking his posterior with pain, but it was too late. He tried to jump up and run but the wicker had him in its grip. The last time I saw him, he was Quasimodo-ing his way out the door with that wicked stool attached to his backside, holding on for wicker life. I swear I could hear the theme from jaws playing on the little ceiling speakers.

I will give wicker its due. It's a worthy adversary. I have to respect the durability of the concept. It's like plaid or flannel or corduroy, some people hate those too, but they have their place. And like those fake turtlenecks called dickies, some people love them. I just can't take wicker personally.

So if you love wicker, don't write me. If your name is Wicker, my condolences. If you live in Wickerville, move. If you own a wicker store, don't get all bent out of shape and come looking for me with a wicker bat. Just let me live in wickerless peace. I didn't like Wicker Man or Wicker Park so I probably won't like your defense of wicker.

Please enjoy all of Terry's musing at By the Campfire.

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