Tuesday, February 24, 2004

I sometimes berate Evanston for being a one-horse town, but it turns out I’m just plain wrong–it’s actually a one-horse and one-cowboy town. You see, gentle reader, every once in a while I’m transported to the Wild West. There is a man in our office building who without fail dresses like a cowboy on a daily basis. He perennially mistakes our rather small lobby for the OfrickinK Corral, and as such passersby are frequently subjected to vile clouds of smoke.

The opportunities for fun and mischief would number in the thousands, if it weren’t for the potential six-shooter stored in his Stetson. Perhaps I could enact these scenarios on Friday, since “corporate casual” in Cowboyglish probably translates into “don’t bring your gun.” I can’t wait until Friday, however, so join me as I reckon a bit.

Scenario A: I present myself as a prodigal son dressed in, how do the French spell it, cowboy ‘hacooterments.

Outcome A: He hugs me. Then he challenges me to a quickdraw. Bang, I’m dead.

Scenario B: I “wrassle” him.

Outcome B: Bang, I’m dead. He hugs me.

Scenario C: I make some tumbleweed out of sandwich crumbs and green Easter grass. I give it to him as a peace offering.

Outcome C: He insults my tumbleweed, we trade angry words, gunfire. Turns out I slipped some green Easter grass into his cigarettes earlier, which he promptly inhaled. I win.