There’s a mandate stashed in the mustiest corner of the backroom, deep in a cabinet labeled INSUFFERABLE with bright red letters, and it basically says Mondays must be shitty. The best course of action would be to find whoever issued this mandate and show him the meaning of retribution, but if this isn’t possible, I suppose we could just find the cabinetmaker. And lock him in the cabinet. With fire.
Do I seem like the type of person who’d enjoy returning to campus, interacting with the student body, and shaking hands, hands still attached to people? I remember tackling freshman year with a gusto long since desecrated, and one afternoon in ’99 I wanted to deluge an entire dorm with friendship. The plan was to knock on every door and introduce myself to everybody. Every. Single. Person.
Yellow Volvox and Cicero, drawing upon wisdom to which I wasn’t yet privy, showed me the correct path. I mean, what was I thinking? That I actually wanted to meet dozens of people, maybe have heartfelt conversations with all of them? Thank goodness I gave up this little charade along with, you know, French braiding my hair and kissing all the boys. Still haven’t acknowledged the utility of pants, though.
After graduation I’ve returned to campus a few times with the sole intention of distributing hiring posters. I’ve evoked the ire of at least one professor, who proceeded to rip up my neon sheets loudly and symbolically. Shouldn’t he have been busy publishing or something? Anyway, I realize this probably isn’t how the alumni center envisioned me giving back to the university, but all that will change this September. It’s career fair time, which I guess is legitimate because you get to pay a few hundred dollars to place your posters on a table. And you know what? Despite my best efforts, I’ve succumbed to a wholly inappropriate emotion. We’ll tentatively call it “excitement.”
I’m beat, dear reader. Part of me enjoys nature, at least to the extent where interaction involves walking on a pleasant day, while the other part looks at outdoorsy life and yawns. Yes, there’s a charm to being an Eagle Scout and knowing how to clot a flesh wound with granola and twigs, but that’s just not me.
I went to a bonfire on a beach tonight, and on the whole it was fun. Sitting by the lake just never gets old, you know? And then the bugs came. Hair smelled all smoky. As I reached for a stick to roast some marshmallows, it occurred to me the makeshift utensil had been sitting in the dirt for heaven knows how long. Eons, possibly.
This was the perfect cue to leave, make myself scarce, and define the limits of my congress with Mother Nature. Watch out for bears this weekend, yeah?
And so the Snugglecat said to the Flufflephant, “That’s the true meaning of Christmas, and also why we share.” They held hands and giggled and– Aw, hell, I can’t do this anymore. It’s just unnatural, much in the same way you’d expect Mondays to be jubilant or loud construction throughout the night to be pleasant.
I called the townhall today to inquire about their time frame for paving the city streets. Only a few more days, said the fellow in engineering, of excavation and shit from 9 PM to 7 AM. I originally wanted to squeeze sleep somewhere into that choice bracket–maybe I’m too set in my ways–but, well, you know.
A brilliant solution for our London friends came to mind today, dear reader, in the form of a little conceit I call “Motel 73.” The full title would be “Jihad Motel 73,” though my deft command of international relations and love of brevity asserted a firm veto.
Really, in order to explain my concept without lavish euphemisms, I should tell you the motel is actually a huge concrete room. We’d put a few school buses inside and fill them with, I don’t know, heatheny mannequins or something, which would attract terrorists by the pound. Once 73 of them enter the room, the door clangs shut and the problem solving begins.
In the end, it’s not a question about my needs, nor the needs of any other infidel, it’s all about their wants. Perhaps I’m treading too closely to absurdist reductionism, but two things they genuinely seem to enjoy are virgins–72 of them–and exploding. So! Since they’re wearing explosives anyway, all it’d take is for one fellow to detonate and voilà! He blows up and gets to do so with 72 other virgins.
Ho ho, how’s that for efficiency? Tomorrow we’ll return to normalcy as only we can define it.