While pondering over the intricate metaphysics of Renaissance science fiction, gentle reader, my thoughts turned to you. Have you ever wondered how you managed to get into college? Or for that matter, how you managed to gain basic literacy?
These questions unsettle me. What if many “gentle readers” are actually illiterate? That would limit them to drooling over the quaint olive-green border and to clicking on the links. No, I shan’t even entertain the thought! I shan’t! I shan’t! I cater to the literati, to the intelligentsia. Right? Right.
Assuming you can read, consider this: Have you ever sympathized with Spot the Dog or Jack and Jill? Today, I thought back to the bygone years of my childhood, and Spot and the Up the Hill siblings cried out for vengeance. They demanded justice.
“Why?” you ask, speaking the first–and last–time for tonight.
We fault the Germans for producing violent fairy tales, but are our disenfranchised characters any less wronged, I ask you? You know dogs spend most of their time sleeping, don’t you? So where were you when your first-grade teacher compelled Spot to run over and over again? Where were you when Jack and Jill went up the hill, only to discover the double infirmities of Developing Nation Syndrome and head trauma? I ask you, dear reader, what modern-day country necessitates hiking up a frickin’ HILL to fetch a pail of water? Where’s the running water? And you know that Jack broke his “crown,” don’t you? This isn’t the headwear you pick up at Burger King, understand, but rather the HEAD ITSELF.
Well, I’m fairly riled up now, so to prevent an aneurysm, I will suggest this: if you have kids, gentle reader, wean them off of Aesop and Mother T. Goose.
“What does the “T” stand for?” you ask, disobeying my earlier command.
“TWISTED,” I reply with bloodshot eyes.
Wean your children off of these hacks and put them on a healthy diet of Secondhand Rants. They will become active citizens who will contribute mightily to the community. Cross my heart and hope to die.
That look in your eyes, gentle reader, suggests that you woke up both pregnant and hammered today. Nuts to you for refusing to heed my closing advice from yesterday, though I will give you my condolences and something EVEN BETTER. You see, I’m in a sparkly mood today, a mood no doubt helped by the positively exuberant soundtrack I’m listening to while I work weekend hours to bring you vital information.
“What a loser!” you say. “What are you doing in the office on a Saturday night?”
“Why, the same thing I try to accomplish every night, stupid reader,” I reply imperiously. “To avoid any human contact with YOU.”
Now that we’ve got the nightly pleasantries out of the way, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?
“But I want chocolate tacks!” you wail petulantly.
“How about chocolate-covered brass tacks?” I ask, comproMALICE growing out of my heart.
“No,” you quietly, yet firmly insist, “I want chocolate tacks.”
Very well, gentle reader, very well. One of you–that’s half of the readership, by the way–expressed an interest in the Adventures of Fraulein A.D.D. Rather than overworking my lazy Content Development Department, however, I will outsource the work to you, gentle readers. That’s right–you have a chance to leave your indelible mark on Secondhand Rants history.
Here’s how it works: If you want to refresh your memory on what happened to our intrepid heroine, check here.
Even if you don’t refresh your memory, worry not; I shan’t cry myself to sleep tonight. The important thing is that you send me three–and only three–words describing where you want the sordid tale to end up next. Three words only, mind you, via the e-mail link I’ve graciously provided in the upper-right corner.
For example: “French are funny.” That’s a poor example, especially since you’ve already wasted two words, but you get the idea.
If Secondhand Rants publishes your idea (a watershed in e-journalism for you, I must say), I will personally mail you a piece of still-fresh and un-chewed chocolate complete with a signed letter of thanks from the CEO himself.
So scheme, gentle readers, scheme! It does a body–especially one wracked with a hangover and an impending childbirth–good.
Given the recent rash of pleasant weather, gentle reader, you’ve probably taken to frolicking through campus. The next time you frolic—you do frolic, don’t you?—I want you to take special notice of how people treat animals. I have played witness to some frightening spectacles that would make ASPCA members strangle their cats in righteous fury. These stories are mostly true.
Story 1: Return with me to freshman year, a time that necessitated mindless interaction with, oh, EVERY LIVING SOUL out of a desire for friends. It is a chilly September afternoon, and I am clomping down Sheridan Road with a brown-haired fellow. Midway through regaling me with his travels in Germany, he stops. A squirrel sits on its haunches about ten feet away, nibbling on something or another. Herr Deutschland’s mien twists into one of a S.S. Officer. He roars at the squirrel, sending it away in an angry chatter.
“Ha!” he exults triumphantly. “Squirrels are so funny.”
Story 2: It is summer of sophomore year, and I am walking past the decrepit lot once called “Yesterday’s.” Two women stand in front of its entrance, jabbering about the politics of the day. A baby squirrel approaches one of the women.
“Oh, how cute!” she exclaims. “It’s a baby squirrel.”
“Look, it’s coming nearer,” observes Tweedle Dum.
Tweedle Dee sticks out her sandaled foot to the squirrel, who reciprocates with a vicious nibble.
“Oh my GOD!” shrieks Tweedle Dee.
“What if you get RABIES?!” shouts Tweedle Dum, who pulls out her cell phone to call for help.
Story 3: It is late fall of senior year, a cold hazy night filled with drunken revelry. Having just left a birthday dinner, Tim and I—the designated walker—navigate our way up to Kemper. Tim’s inebriation wrought little damage on his rhetoric, though, and instead enhanced it with disturbing clarity.
We happen upon a rotund baby bird.
“What a cute little bird!” I say with childlike wonderment.
“I know!” chimes in a woman following closely behind us.
“Don’t step on it!” says Tim in a loud, didactic voice to the woman, myself, and the bird. He folds his hands behind his back Socrates-style, proceeds to whistle snatches of Handel’s “Messiah,” and shambles on with a philosophical air.
And in that moment, Cicero, Quintilian, and Hermagoras collectively turned in their graves.
That’s all we have for tonight, gentle reader. May you wake up tomorrow with neither hangover nor pregnancy.