A Day of Fright

A couple mornings ago I had a harrowing brush with death. I was walking back to Parish while whistling "Banana Phone" when I was horrified to find myself face to face with and less than five feet from the Albino Squirrel. After a moment of sizing each other up, the monstrosity showed its displeasure at my choice of song by baring its fangs and letting out a mighty roar. The wave of sound rustled my hair and the foul smell alone made my whitey tighties turn deep brown. This would have been slightly embarrassing if I wasn't worried that this would be my last moment upon the Earth before being savagely devoured by the most infamous Carleton beast of lore.

I reached into my pocket to call my mother and tell her, "Mom, all of these years, you have been a wonderful provider and excellent resource for a boy often in need of guidance, support, and down-home cooking. You have much more than satisfactorily satisfied the qualities of mother. Gone "above and beyond" even, as they say. Been stern yet lax when needed. Mom, none of that matters, because there is a killer albino squirrel baring its fangs at me, and I have shitted my pants embarrasingly, and I'm only calling to say one thing: Mom, I lov -- AAAUGGGHHH!! OH LORD THE FANGS--". However, I then realized I own no phone, and my mother would have to learn of my death secondhand in the obituaries of the Rochester Post-Bulletin, the "weird news" section of Yahoo.com, or Jay Leno's monologue.

Indeed, the monstrosity belched another poop-inducing roar, clearly becoming hungrier and angrier. I decided to plead. "Please, Mr. Squirrel, I have a wife and kids," I lied. Big mistake. Turns out the albino squirrel is not only a foul carnivorous flesh-eating beast, but also a lady and a vehement feminist. She did not take kindly to my assumption of maleness for every squirrel. It was at that moment that she leaped at my throat. Just before I passed out from fright and poop fumes, I swear I saw a mini Hillary button pinned to the she-squirrel's chest.

When I awoke, I said "Am I in squirrel dungeon? Or heaven?" Rob Oden leaned over me and said, "No, my son, you...are...at...the...wellness...center." Then he told me all about the dramatic rescue that saved my life and finally vanguished the horrible white beast:


Thank heaven for the Carleton Security Squirrel Squad.

-Kevin

P.S. don't you dare think I made that drawing. It's here.

Where is #4?

Last night, in the wee hours, I was rudely woken by two of my chattier roommates. At a quarter to five, an unconscious Kevin, much like Chicken Little, panicked over a collapsing sky, while a consoling voice from above -- Andy, also unconscious -- maintained the bed was, in fact, in no danger of falling. I, doing my best to ignore the event, am unsure whether a resolution was reached, but pray the debate is not continued tonight.

Kevin begrudgingly worked the LDC today, serving "Spinach Florentine Cakes."

Jon, seen for the first time since the incident this morning, just returned to the room with a copy of the 2002 National Intelligence Estimate.

Andy has turned to alcohol abuse to cope with selling out.

I received a Melitta coffee filter in the mail today.

And through all this the ass only brayed: HEE-HAW.

According to a later Roman biographer, the cynical philosopher Diogenes of Sinope once walked the streets of ancient Athens with a lighted lantern attached to his staff, in search of an honest man. He never found one. On another occasion, according to the same source, Diogenes stood in the Athenian agora and shouted "Men of Athens, come to me!" As soon as they drew near, he began striking everyone he could with his staff, shouting "I said men, not scoundrels!"
For the first time in my life, I fully understand Diogenes predicament. Among my cohabitants in Parish 103, you will not find a single honest man. It's much worse than that, I fear: I'm not surrounded by men at all, rather only a group of incorrigible scoundrels: Kevin sleepwalks, Andrew's feet smell, and Jon lacks any recognizable concept of decency.
In this blog, dear reader, you will find the bitter chronicle of my struggles with this pack of mangy dogs. If you find the urge to weep for me, save your tears. The worst is certainly yet to come.
-Andy