“A brick has no legs, so it probably slithers like a snake. Therefore, a brick might make a good pet. And at least you wouldn’t have to walk it.
”

“Brick and Blanket could be the names of two characters in a screenplay full of witty dialogue like:
Brick: Hello!
Blanket: Hi!
Brick: How are you?
Blanket: Good. You?
Brick: Good.”

“A brick could be dropped in a toilet to replicate the sound of shitting bricks. But we wouldn’t have to go through all that trouble if you’d just eat the bricks I put on your plate.
”

“A brick could be pet, like a dog, and taught to shit in my neighbor's yard.
”

“A brick could be used like the point where always meets never. I mean come on, who wouldn’t want to watch a brick levitate? 
”

“A brick could be used to ascertain the truth. And then logically, a non-brick could be used to detect the lie. What kind of things are non-bricks? Well, anything from blankets to lies. So therefore, a lie could be used to detect a lie, and all this logic makes me want to grab a blanket and lie down—and that’s the truth. 
”

“A brick could be used to commit genocide on a small patch of grass, if you lay the brick down on the lawn and leave it there long enough. But I do not condone this monstrosity of lawntrocity. (Lawn + atrocity—clever, no? OK, no, it’s not so clever. To have any lawngevity as a writer, I’ve got to avoid making clunky, brick-like puns.)
”