Take some pity on us unworthy, TomnDeb, for our patience is sorely taxed.
We buy some furniture, and bring it home in a pick-up truck, borrowed from our brother who is otherwise useless.  It is an innocent excercise, well-intended, and yet…
We are assailed for enslaving a duck to carry our furniture!  We are perlexed, of course, who wouldn’t be.  We reassure that by no means would we do such a thing, even if we could, which we can’t.  A duck simply cannot be pressed into such service, it would falter and fail.  And yet we are sternly reprimanded: Well, then, if the thing is impossible, why did you insist upon it?
We grow vexed.  We take our critic firmly by the hand, and walk him about the truck, pointing out the features…the tires, the doors, the steering wheels…that are present.  Then we point our the features…the feathers, the waterproof Nixon, the quack…which are lacking and we beg our critic to draw the obvious conclusion.  They  furrow their brows and walk round again, kicking the tires, trying the doors, and then, just when it looks as though good sense will triumph…they press the horn.
“Aha! it quacks!  And how can we be certain of this?  Well, there is no echo!  It is a known fact that of all noises, only a duck’s quack does not echo!”  We are bereft.  We  fetch encyclopedia, fact sheets, even The Writings and lay out our authorities.  After careful examination they ask “Did you fetch these on the duck as well?”
We swoon, we are dizzy.  We seize our critics bodily, brusquely, we thrust them towards the front and open the hood…“the beak!”…no, damn your eyes! no! it is a* hood*, it is metal, there is nothing remotely avian about it, look where its says “Ford”!!  And look, there, tell me what you see!  Tell me!
And they glare at us with stern disapproval and scold: “How cruel!  How ingeniously cruel, you have prised this poor creatures jaws apart and stuffed a six-cyclinder engine into its unoffending maw!”
We stagger away, we are defeated, and sorely vexed.  We want only strong drink and powerful drugs, to numb our shredded Reason, and one or another of us has muttered “stupid!” and…we are sorry.  We are apologetic.  We beseech your tolerant forbearance, but we are human, we have our limits.  Job would have torn a length of sackcloth from his person to fashion a garrotte, Mother Theresa would have pulled a .38 from her ankle holster, and fired until she exhausted her ammunition, and then she would have flailed them with her rosary beads.
We will try.