Mr. Cargo:
What, exactly, is your educational background?
-Ivanushka Zumchenko
Azusa, California USA
Dearest Ivanushka:
My what, now? I like to think of myself as a non-formal student of human psychology (aren't we all?) and office politics, having already earned my "BS" B.S. in 10-key and light filing.
Well, let me put this another way: Here next to me is a VHS tape I have kept conveniently archived for this exact occasion, which I never thought would come.
Watch and deduce:
*whirrr*
*vvvrt*
Click!
...."What?"
"Ahahahahahahaha."
"Seriously. I need a college diplammo, right, if I'm gonna grow up to buy and sell people's asses on the Wall Street market like in those 80s movies with those cokehead business typhoons with those hanging balls on their desks. I am going to write a seesth..feesthis..seestis..on whatever we find on TV tonight."
"Hands off the remote, then. Migh's well find something educational for you. NO INFOMERCIALS!"
"AHAAAHAHHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHAAHAAAHAHAAAAHAHAAHAHA! I donwant my seesthis to be 'Set It and Forget It'! AaaHahAHahAhaHahA...."
"What's so funny?"
"...What? I have no furg..ferg....The brother from 'Clarissa Explains it All' was named 'Fergie', right, but not exactly 'Fergie', because 'Fergie' is a derivative of 'Fergstein'--"
"'Fergstein? Fergstone? That's wrong. Completely wrong. It was 'FERGUSON', like, slang for going to the can. 'I GOTTA VISIT THE OL' FERGUSON'... Wait. I just totally made that up, I think. It's... He's the Duchess of Spork."
"The Muchness of Spock."
"Live long and prosper, man."
"YEAH, and if Leonard Nimoy was a head of lettuce, he'd totally be like, 'Live long in the crisper, beee-yatch!' ....PppPPFFFAAAaaAaAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAHAHaaaAAAAA*uncontrollable coughing fits*"
"Wait..... What?"
"AhahaHaAHAAHAHaahaHahaAhahAhhAaaaawwwwWWwWhat the hell is a 'diplammo' and why did I want one again?"
"To write your bleepfis."
"My what?"
"To get a FFfff-dee."
"Speak up!"
"Your p...There are other letters too..."
"YOU'RE PEE!"
"Your thing!"
"Oh, wait, right, I want one of those hats with the tail smart guys wear with togas on stage."
"They call that a mortarboard."
"A goitersword? Dude, just eat iodine. Less blood."
"Blood?"
"...I don't know, Fergwad."
*15 seconds of silence*
*Uncontrollable laughter of two male voices for 55 additional seconds*
*16 seconds of coughing*
*78 seconds of water bubbling*
"Let's leave it here on the Phi-sci. The fly by. Mai Tai."
"PUT A TINY UMBRELLA IN ME, 'CAUSE I AM QUITE DRINKABLE! ......That made no sense. I don't remember what I just said except that it makes no sense."
"--What about your seesthis?"
"I donknow, but Imna openeez Sno-Balls an' imitate...do like...watch this! (muffled) I'm a world famousth trumpertmammm!"
(two break into song):
"TRUMPETMAAAAN, FLYIN' OUT IN SPACE WITH SNO-BALL CHEEKS!'
"Trumpetmaaaan, ain't seen a pair of Ding Dongs for weeks!"
"I have a feeling Trumpetman's more of a Twinkie man."
"TWINKIEMAAAAN, TASTY PASTRY PHAL-LUS FILLED WITH CREAM!"
"TWINKIE-MAAAAN....uh.....Twinkiemaaan....Dude, Twinkieman's lost his novelty."
"TWINKOPHOBE!"
The tape ends there, because I just took it out of the VCR and smashed it to bits with a summer sausage.
Anyways, here's my thesis, entitled "The Effects of THC on Guys Writing This Thesis While Watching Sci-Fi Channel Reruns in the Early Morning Hours":
HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA LITTLE RICKY JUST TURNED INTO A CAR! I TOTALLY DON'T GET WHAT'S HAPPENING. THIS SHIT'S MADNESS.
This is followed by twenty pages of pencil drawings, mostly of bearded men wearing wigs. (It did help me get my GED.)
I don't dabble in recreational herbs like I did back in my, erm, college days, mostly due to the arm bullets from the Alan Thicke incident rendering me unable to independently operate a bong, water pipe, non-water pipe, roach clip, rolling paper or wallet. It was just about impossible for me to procure anything smokable without help from the same guy that for a time was helping me dress myself and urinate, and, well, the (totally platonic) awkwardness of that whole deal did those olde-tyme bake sessions in pretty good.
I finally did the mature, sensible, adult, legal thing and took up heavy drinking to cope after an unfortunate slip and fall on Leetsdale Drive alerted me to my ability to open liquor bottles using only my teeth.
Lately, the closest I've gotten to a "recreational substance" is during the last game of Swiss Roulette I played at the office. Here's how you play Swiss Roulette:
1) Buy enough boxes of chocolates to ensure even distribution of said chocolates amongst your entire staff.
2) Inject liquid LSD into a small number of random chocolates. One per box ought to do it.
3) Distribute evenly, per #1.
I can remember that day vividly. I had put the chocolates out first thing in the morning and gone to my desk to begin the day. In the spirit of the game, I ate one of the chocolates with my first cup of coffee. After ten minutes at my desk I began to feel woozy and sweat profusely.
"Jeez, man. This can't be happening again," I thought.
My heart began to race, my head began to pound and I began to see spots. Everything my coworkers said began to sound more like gibberish that got progressively dumber, more annoying, and less interesting. Their voices began to warp into taunting clown-like laughs in my direction, mocking me as I felt the lifeforce drain out of me one page at a time, my esophagus aflame, my taste buds interpreting my last sip of coffee with a slight tinge of vomit. Demons of hopelessness, rage, and frustration descended upon me as I swam aimlessly in the endless sea of grey and beige that swished back and forth around me, rendering me dizzy and disoriented.
The phone rings.
I answer.
"Ac-c-ccCounting?"
"MUuUahahahaHAHaHAHAhaAHahaAAa-a-aa-a-aAAA! Welcome to Cubicle Hades: YOUR NEW RESIDENCE! Pack your bags with your meager belongings and gigantic, doOOoOOMED clothing and undergarments and prepare to thrash uncontrollably, in perpetuity, in the pits of FIIIIRE and TONERrrRr and STaaAAaaANDARD STAPLEssSS, NIC-O-LAssSSssS CAaaarRRR-GooOO! AAaaaa-HAHAHAHAAAaaa--(inhales deeply)HAHAHAhaHa(10 seconds of uncontrollable coughing)YOU GET THE IDEA, WOoOoooRM!"
"...Vicki? Is that you? Oh my God, what's happening?! I can't take this anymore. I think I'm freaking o--"
A workmate interrupts.
"--Holy shiiit! Charlotte's gone nuuuuuUuUuts. You gotta seeEee thiiIis."
"Vicki? I'll pull that report after lunch. Charlotte's put her chips on red this week."
Lovable Charlotte had made it to the roof of the building to spend the next three hours grabbing pigeons out of midair and beating them mercilessly with a summer sausage, screaming the name of a sitcom character for each one she caught. After the thirty-fourth pigeon, she simply started calling all of them "Weezie" or "Meathead".
That was a productive day.
Ask Mr. Cargo!
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