I was in the basement of A.B. Anderson, reading and listening to my cd player, when suddenly I was surrounded by an entire classroom. Apparently the students finished their paintings and had brought them out into the lounge to critique. Uncle Tom and I were sprawled all about a couch, and backpack, jacket and climbing gear were strewn over the floor. I gauged by the students’ incredulity of my presence that it was expected I leave during their ceremony, though no one said anything to that effect. Oh, there were whispers and awkward stares, but both were drowned out by Ben Folds Five. The professor didn’t seem to mind me, as she was too wrapped up in her energetic congratulation of the paintings. I just sat and ignored. Some jewels of praise leaked through the headphones:
“OOOH! It’s so amazing what you guys did! Look at all the wonderful new colors you came up with! It’s all so colorful!”
I refused to be distracted, to look at the paintings in question. By the professor’s ejaculations it sounded like they were a collection of cruel Nazi experiments that used disgust to cause colorblindedness. Take one look and your love of color is dashed so violently that your world turns black and white.
Johnny Bravo is my crack fix. I haven’t missed the show for three days straight, and for me that amount of consistency is very rare. I want to write cartoons when I grow up.
Ok, how funny would this be?
Between classes you’re walking through the Hall of Dead Things in Life Science. The sight of prone animals suddenly awakens an ancestral memory, long repressed. Overcome with the urges of Primitive Man, you plunge your fist through one of the glass display cases. As the shards tinkle to the floor you close your fist around the tail of the porcupine, yank him from his mothball coffin. Bellowing a primal cry you raise the prickly beast over your head and barrel through the crowd, whacking students at random. The soft flesh of college is no match for a quill-filled smack across the face. Nothing can take you down. As you make your way to the Chancellor’s office, all who stand in your way are rendered weeping pin cushions. Meeting no resistence from the supple secretary, you enter the inner sanctum. By luck the Chancellor is as her desk, not out fundraising or some damn thing.
She looks at you over the top of her glasses. You stare back, level, jets of steam pumping from your nostrils. With surprising speed she leaps from her seat and pulls a broadsword from the wall. The Chancellor lunges at you, the thirst for your death in her eyes. A tiring fight ensues, and the Chancellor is finally subdued. With your blood in a fury you perch atop her desk, porcupine in hand, and let loose a chilling howl.