Wednesday, June 11, 2003

Having immersed myself in a frightening four hours of British literature, I just entered the suite to discover Brand-o and Esther making a piñata. College, gentle reader, can apparently drive people to extreme boredom.

“A piñata,” you say. “How cute.”

You’d think so, wouldn’t you? The problem with the handicraft is that it bears an uncanny resemblance to a SMALL CHILD. They call it a “snowman,” but its silhouette is unquestioningly tot-like; were the police or family advocacy groups to look from outside in, they would go into hairy conniptions.

I articulated as much, but production blithely continued as wads of newspaper were slapped onto the precious creation, a creation suspended from the ceiling by its neck.

Well, we’re probably going to get a call from University Police anytime now, but I’m content with the effort I expended on warning our in-house Van Gogh and Gauguin. I’m so content, in fact, that I’m compelled to beat that damn snowman with a golf club. Ironic, you might point out, but therapeutic as well.