Thursday, May 5, 2005

I sense a revolting sore throat just begging to consume my last shred of goodwill, so we’re going to change our schedule slightly. Originally some clarification for Antiquity City was in order, but we’ll have to let it marinate a bit longer. There are certain thresholds of decency, as I understand it, and they preclude mentioning something and then revisiting it almost two months later. I also understand, however, we SPAT ALL OVER those thresholds long ago.

If my co-worker’s stories are accurate, Evanston is the very cradle of aborted romance. We’re not talking about coarse pick-up lines or flirtation bordering on harassment. We’re talking about courtship rituals so ill-conceived they’d send the nurse looking for a pack of coat hangers. This naturally presents us with a tempting license to expand upon the tenets of hottness, which means it’s time to get cracking.

Sore throats rest somewhere in the middle of my spectrum for unpleasant feelings. When you couple that with an impending company picnic filled with beef and tennis, well, it’s time to go to bed.