You ever see something coming, and know it’s a horrible idea, and it’s going to happen anyway? Like the release of the (ghostwritten) “in her own words” story of Amber Frey and Scott Peterson to inevitably negative reviews: “As compelling and dramatic as a coiled dog turd baking in the summer sun,” says Flak Magazine. You knew, from the moment she appeared on the national stage, that the book would be written, and published, and advertised, and bought. And that nobody would think it was a good idea, but that they’d do it anyway. Because that’s what is done.
Or maybe A Charles Dickens Theme Park, where, presumably, entry fees will be collected directly from your pockets by charmingly malnourished orphans. Oh, nobody on the board of directors thinks it’ll make money or bring people in to Kent, but they can’t quite bring themselves to criticize the legacy of Dickens– or the ideas of the guy who proposed the project, since he’s someone’s boss or uncle or father-in-law. The fact that an abandoned, burned-out Dickens theme park, populated by homeless teenage alcoholics, really will be Dickensian, never really came up. Huh.
Secretly Ironic 