The Audacity Of Folks

Here I sit, fresh from a day of developing my profession, not feeling any more smarter. Yeah. I know that's not grammatically correct. I drew pictures with colored markers, renamed myself, played the ol' do-si-do with numbers, counted to 29, brainstormed, made a list, critiqued my cronies, and dealt some cards. I want that seven hours of my life back. Make that 4:40, if you take off lunch and the time he let us out early.

The presenter wasn't bad as presenters go. He was a theater fellow from down Springfield way, wearing a very ugly shirt, with black pants cinched at his armpits. At first, he reminded me of a creepy victims-buried-in-the-back-yard, lampshade-made-of-human-skin type of guy. Once he started talking, he was fairly humorous, so I tolerated him.

The first order of business was to rename ourselves from a list he gave us. Without giving away trade secrets, I'll just tell you that Goober Chicken Face was on my right, Poopsie Diaper-Fanny was across from me, and sitting at the left hand of moi, aka Tootie Chicken-Tush, was my bestest friend, Fluffy Gizzard-Twat. OK, Mabel. Don't get all hot-to-trot on me. I simply forgot your other name, Fluffy. So I did the best I could to recreate it.

The day went kind of downhill from there. We were up and down, doing this and that, joining up with our new families. Let it be known that the Tush clan was quite prolific, and even had a set of twins, which Presenter said had never happened before. I always knew that Mr. S and Arch Nemesis were spookily alike. Every time Poopsie Diaper-Fanny got up from our table, we gave him a round of applause. Not because he was doing anything extraordinary, mind you, but because he was GONE for a few minutes. Just before lunch, to which he had invited himself, he informed Goober, Fluffy, and me that someone's husband had just replaced a door on that restaurant, and roaches poured out of it. Meh. All restaurants have bugs and mice and rats. Get over it. I suppose we have to mark off that Mexican cruise now since someone's husband woke up in a bathtub full of ice with only one kidney. Poopsie's new best friend, whom we shall call Pooper, because every party has one, also bailed on us for lunch, being so health-conscious that she did not want to ingest insect legs and wings with us. Maybe she should have been that health-conscious when she picked up a cinnamon roll the size of a dinner plate at the breakfast buffet, and slathered it with butter until it looked like a pastry mime. But I digress.

What really gets my goat is what happened at the end, when we were paroled. I returned to my original table to pick up my stuff. Water bottle, check. Handouts, check. Plastic knife with all its teeth, check. WHERE WAS MY RED PILOT PRECISE ROLLING BALL WRITER? I shouted it out loud. "Where is my red Pilot Precise Rolling Ball Writer? Has anybody seen my red Pilot Precise Rolling Ball Writer? My red Pilot Precise Rolling Ball Writer is missing!" Oh, believe me, I said it way more than that. And more urgently. And what to my wondering eyes should appear but Arch Nemesis striding across the cafeteria, holding it out. "Here. Here's your pen." She acted put out. Like how dare I make such a commotion over my red Pilot Precise Rolling Ball Writer. I snatched it out of her hand, saying, "Great. I don't want your swine flu all over it." Then I ran to my room with it for safekeeping.

I passed Arch Nemesis in the hall later. She offered, "Hey, give me your red Pilot Precise Rolling Ball Writer and I will wash off my swine flu virus." What does she think, that I was born yesterday? "No thanks. I'll give it a bath on my own." I can't believe she saw it on the table and took it. She knew full well that it wasn't hers. She knew I had been sitting there. It's not like I'm Tootie Rolling Ball, strewing pens across the campus like an educated Johnny Appleseed.

I can't believe the audacity of folks.