A word of advice for you, gentle reader: If you ever crave White Rabbit Chews, do not buy them from the grocery store across from Renga Tei, a fine Japanese restaurant on West Touhy Avenue. Once again, the restaurant is fine, but the grocery store across the street is horrendous.
The sly shopkeeper, I’ll have you know, not only gypped me out of fifty cents, but she also foisted off on me “White Rabbit Buttertoffee.” This disgusting imitation comes from “Candyman”–I don’t know much about him, but he apparently hails from the Philippines and is incorporated–and the rabbit on the package bears an uncanny resemblance to the real rabbit I know and love. If you don’t believe me, feel free to drop by and I’ll give you a few pieces. They’re exquisite.
Frequenters of CEO Lisa’s joint may have wondered why she changed her storefront all of a sudden. Well, I’m here to you what happened and I’m here to tell it precisely so, I might add.
As I sat in my office this past Friday, gentle reader, fiddling with my executive toys and looking forward to a weekend filled with wild boar hunting, I asked myself one of those life-changing questions.
“Self, how exactly does your company edify the community at large?”
I began to answer this question–honestly, fully, seriously–when my attention was suddenly diverted by a platter of sweetmeats and capers. I promptly proceeded to eat and polished off the entire platter.
Late afternoon rolled around and my doorman announced a visitor. Within moments, my faithful workers buzzed her up, and as soon as she stepped foot into my office, I nearly tasted my sweetmeats and capers for a second time.
“You’ve got to help me!” she wailed.
“And you are…?” I queried, fully cognizant of our last ill-fated meeting. CEO’s must feign unfamiliarity, you see.
“Don’t you remember me? Geneva? Bread? My problem?”
And I did remember, dear reader. I also remembered that Secondhand Rants dispatched a team of snipers to take care of her elfish problem.
“Well, my problem’s dead!”
“There, there gentle CEO,” I replied, pity in my eyes. “I’m sure he’s happier wherever he is.”
This was a patent lie, of course, as her blonde-headed elf actually resides in my Trophy Room–stuffed by my personal taxidermist, thank you very much.
“Have some refreshment,” I said as I handed her some fine wine laced with Forget-Me-Now™, a special drug formulated by our pharmaceutical division.
The moment I handed her the wine, a moral battle exploded within me.
“Should I hand her the drug? It’s not exactly approved by the FDA.”
“But it’s Friday afternoon!”
“What? It’s a potent drug, you know. She’ll forget everything. I’ve got to stop her.”
“Too late.”
Indeed, the foolish CEO had already downed the drink.
“I’m…I’m…” she started.
“What’s that?”
“I want…I want to–” she stumbled.
“–remodel your storefront circa late 2001, early 2002.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. Well, I’m off! Thanks for everything. You’ve really helped…I think. Why am I here again?” she exclaimed as my doorman escorted her out.
And that, gentle reader, is why this company is important.
“Because you drug people?” you ask sassily.
“Talk to the sniping hand, biznatch.” Snipe.
Oh, one other thing. Per another CEO’s advice dispensed on May 12, 2003 at 11:07:18 PM, I let the wind re-style my hair. That part went well, but I lost about $60.00 in tips because my money kept flying away. If you’re reading this, my legal department will be in touch with you shortly.
Do you ever get stir-crazy, gentle reader? I’ve felt like this recently, but I’m not sure why I feel like this. What I do know, however, is that this case of stir-craziness–and thank you, Terrence, for the useful phrase–cannot be remedied with a simple jaunt outdoors. It’s a different strain, you see; the generic strain simply makes one want to shake, shake one’s skin off and reboot, but this strain runs much, much deeper.
Am I making any sense, dear reader? At some point in the last few days, I inhaled an amalgam of senioritis, blithe denial of the thirty-eight days left of college, pensiveness concerning the job market, and faceless stress. There is a desire to move on, to make a clean break from college, but there is also an accompanying uncertainty and nostalgia. And I am tired.
Would that I could do it all again with some variations here and there; and would that I am only voicing the angst voiced by so many in the past.
“Don’t end up like a meat pie on the conveyor belt!” my violin teacher told me one evening in her thick German accent. She had just finished recounting how much she enjoyed “Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street,” one of Sondheim’s plays from which she pulled this life-applicable symbol.
Yeah, you were right all along. Play it again, Sam, but play it slowly this time, and get me off of the conveyor belt.