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Volume CXXXIII, Number 6 |
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As work piles up, so
does IcyHot
IAN MORRISON
HUMOR COLUMNIST
It's just about mid-semester, and I'd like to make some things clear: the reading - I haven't done it. That problem set that was due by five - it'll be done by six, tomorrow. That thing that was supposed to be done when it was due will not be done when that next thing is due, which will not, incidentally, be done. It's hit the fan, as they say, and unfortunately, since we live in Maine, the fan isn't on and it hasn't gone anywhere - it just sits there, killing the atmosphere. A scientific fact: the distance my mind wanders is directly proportional to the amount of it slowly dripping off the fan. Some thoughts . . . .
Everything I know about the properties of thermodynamics as well as the rules of grammar tells me IcyHot is very messed. When I try to and put equal parts of Icy and Hot into a tube I get slippery fingers and a lukewarm mess. Statistically, the chances of the Icy and the Hot not mixing in the tube are less than the chances of a million monkeys with typewriters typing a hundred letters a second since the beginning of the universe producing the complete version of Hamlet. This brings about the question of why "Hamlet" is a melodramatic dude and not a ham omelet. I believe McDonald's would make quite a good McHamlet. McDonald's does not make good dudes.
Back to IcyHot. As I said before, the fan is not on, and we are in Maine. Now I must ask: would it not be better for us to be able to purchase independently the Icy and the Hot? In fairer climates the ideal mixture of Icy and Hot might be 50/50; here, however, I would prefer and little less Icy with my Hot. I am a rather cold person - in all ways - and certainly would benefit from a purely tropical topical temperature supplement.
The fan is not on and I am playing with IcyHot, the smell of which is making me noxious (not to mention the smell of the it). Having coated all of my body in IcyHot, I was rather Icy a second ago, so I put on twelve non-porous layers of garbage bags - the idea being to reflect my body heat - which now, having a Hot flash, I regret. I've no garbage bags to vomit in, so it looks like I'm going to have to vom in a sweater. That makes the tally sweaters twelve, garbage bags nil.
The monkeys with typewriters: everything I know about evolution as well as typing tells me they are definitely messed. Even if you give me a million of myselfs and blah blah blah I couldn't type for you a complete nothing, much ado about it or not. But, I don't know much about monkeys.
Taking a break from stalling, so as to stall, and in desperate need of removing the incinerating ointment covering my epidermis, I rush into the shower. One thing's for sure: whatever mastermind designed IcyHot also designed the water pipes running to my shower. After a few minutes of oscillating between being under the showerhead and pressed as tightly as possible against the tile walls, I give up and get out of shower adorned with bruises. Bruises which I soothe with IcyHot.
Alright, I'm down to my last sweater: it's time to do some work.
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