This will sound like a mega-town lie but I just wrote an entire column and didn’t save it, then went to save it and Word froze and the cursor was replaced by the rainbow spinny wheel of death so I had to force quit and now I am making pathetic excuses for my writing and contemplating euthanasia. Not even the moral issues surrounding it. Just in general.
The compère on National Radio just introduced a discussion called ‘Euthanasia Amongst Satellites’. I have stopped listening, but my brain is going mental trying to figure what it could have been about. I think that if I were to be euthanised, I would like it to occur amongst satellites. I mean… I don’t know what the shit I’m talking about. Idiocy aside, they would send me into outer space on a hospital bed in a rocket. Then the rocket would disappear, because it wouldn’t actually be a rocket, just a futuristic hologram (I’m sorry, I thought I said “idiocy aside”, but hey). Then, I assume that my vegetable body would expand and expand and expand and explode into a myriad of fleshy pieces. I wonder, would the individual pieces then continue to expand and explode and expand and explode until they were single atoms? Would the atoms, and then the electrons, and the protons, and the neutrons, continue to expand and explode all over space? Feck! That would be okay. I would say that is an ok way to die. Euthanasia Amongst Satellites! Alright! Youth in Asia Amongst Satellites? I wouldn’t be surprised.
Back to my dreary post-work Friday night reality, and the radio is telling me about an old woman in Oamaru who is pissy because some thief keeps stealing her panties. I think maybe she is just old and can’t keep track of her delicates. Speaking of can’t keep track of, there are people on the roof above my bedroom making a whole lot of noise. ‘Thump, thump’, they thump. ‘Thump’. Awful segue! Possible sexy results! Bed time!
Two days later and I have been reminded of Pashin’ On Campus. That thing I write once every two weeks in about 10 minutes in the wee hours of a Monday morning. I thought maybe I’d spend more time on this one, and guess what? I have been writing it for three days now (not consistently, duh, but three days!). One would perhaps think that this sort of time expenditure would make for a wittier, more fluent piece of prose. Maybe a conclusion or moral lesson would weave its way delicately throughout the work. But no, I have succeeded once again in exceeding my word limit without addressing anything of even slight importance.
The end!!! Dissatisfied? I am!
Here’s the part where I feel obliged to somehow acknowledge that this column is called Pashin’ On Campus, and that this might, possibly, be misleading. You were expecting something sexy, and you got bathetic bathos. I’m sorry.
Jorje del Sucksalot. X.