I’ll be frank: when it comes to making a full-fledged, bare-assed ass of myself, I’m no trembling neophyte. You’re talking to the guy whose primary high school pastime entailed getting a couple bro-skis together, coasting down Main Street in the wee hours and belting “ANAL LEAKAGE!” to anyone who’d listen.
I’ve subjected myself to considerable psychological trauma via talent shows whereupon I might well end the set adorned with poultry products of varying freshness degrees, high school gym classes where more often than not I’d wind up with a well-aimed dodgeball or two to the delicates, and vaguely jingoistic elementary school plays in which the status of Christopher Columbus as slave-mongerer extraordinaire is conveniently elided (gotta love that old South Park episode where a “historical reenactment” of white/Indian relations consists of eight year-olds bashing each other to a pulp).
The key element in all these instances, however, is that I had some form of choice in the matter. Such a factor of personal volition seems to have been lost on the seemingly inexhaustible hordes of bloodsucking turds (science deigns to ascribe them the too-dignified label of “mosquito”) who took it upon themselves to virtually invade campus over the past couple weeks.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been lowered to near-neanderthal status in the midst of manic, semi-primal efforts to stave off these parasitic monstrosities; I couldn’t so much as make my way to class without being ruthlessly assaulted.
My dignity thus stripped, I could do little but defend myself, and so wherever I felt a prickle would receive a vengeful smack. While this sort of display is all well and good for the victim of intolerable boundary infringement, it might not bode so well in the eyes of bemused passersby.
Consider the sight of some scrawny white guy, somewhat ironically clad in Mos Def T-shirt and faded blue jeans (naturally faded, mind – I’m not one of those people), slapping at himself like some slobbering mental patient and muttering various unmentionable phrases under his breath. (A fairly recent introduction to “The Sopranos” has done wonders for my vocabulary in this respect – I really never knew it was possible to elevate four-letter language to the status of high art.)
Now, and let’s be genuine, is your first impression that of a) one hell of a stand-up fella, b) some poor unfortunate person going through a rough patch but he’ll be fine after the mid-movie montage where he gets buff and gets the girl, or c) a raving, fluid-spewing lunatic with possible masochistic tendencies who should be quarantined ASAP and allowed human contact only that he might throw around phrases like “quid pro quo” and “you fly back to school, Agent Starling?”
I honestly have no plausible idea, but for the sake of argument we’ll go with the latter. Which brings me to my chief beef: how is it that this absurd little nuisance (which, so far as my knowledge extends, contributes almost nothing to nature outside the realm of bat snacking) can drive me to such a blind rage that I’ll abruptly drop all considerations of external appearance/social propriety in an effort to eviscerate them?
Why has a coalition not yet been mounted to wipe them from the face of the planet (okay, I know, the extinction of any species is nothing to joke about, but come on, they’re villains and nothing else; incidentally, PETA apparently stepped in on the filming of the Coen brothers’ “Barton Fink” and chewed them out for killing mosquitoes per the script’s demands, to which I say “Really?”)? And ultimately, what the hell are these guys still doing here anyway?
Last I checked, late September’s supposed to be a harbinger of plunging temps and plummeting leaves, not scorching sunrays and bloodsucking bastards. It’s true that as I write this conditions have improved considerably, but I still can’t help thinking that Gore fella might be on to something, about global warming, that is, not allegedly dallying with Larry David’s super-serial environmentalist ex-wife, not that there’s anything wrong with that. (These super-esoteric references are gonna get me in trouble with people not on my particular wavelength.)
And on that cheery note I bid you adieu for the week, bonjour to any pre-existing readers, and hellfire upon practical function-deficient, social status-lowering vermin.
Justin Levesque can be contacted at
jlevesque@ksc.mailcruiser.com