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The Art of Academic Castration
You'll never know how much I hated the way you made me wait in the hall while you
tended to your junk e-mail. How could you? It wasn't about you. Or was it? After all,
you were the Graduate Director. So much was depending on my making a good first impression.
And when the time was finally right, you summoned me in with your pinstriped left arm
circling wildly overhead, while your right palm piloted. Your chair squeaked.
"Hello," I said to your bent cul-de-sac back. You said nothing back.
Then you nodded at the samples in my folders as if you had read them.
"Nothing in electronic?" You asked.
"No…just what's in Manila." You leafed through them like a diver in a dumpster of recently
discarded sweet rolls. You said nothing. Then, the phone rang. It was Applesauce.
"HI A-P-P-L-E-S-A-U-C-E…D-A-D-D-Y LOVES YOU…OH YES I DOOOOOO…IS MOMMY THERE? OK HONEY…HI HONEY…I
LOVE YOU TOO…IN THE MAILBOX WITH THE KEY…MUFFIN…IS HE UP YET? DOES HE WANT TO SAY HI TO DADDY?
HE DOES? PUT HIM ON NOW BABY…I LOVE YOU TOO…HI CUPCAKE!! DADDY LOVES YOU TOO…YES HE DOES!…YES
HE DOES! I LOVE YOU TOO!!" I waited and waited. I waited patiently, as your insatiable need
to revalidate your cooing commitment to one vagina, finally, came to an end. You looked at
me for the first time.
"Your samples are best described as mawkish litanies...self-absorbed, pseudo-intellectual
drivel, if not anti…more specifically, hopelessly solipsistic rambling…anything you'd like to ask?"
My face went beet red as the phone rang again.
"Hold on," you said with a tinge of a smile. This time it was Pumpkin.
Michael Fahy
Email: Michael Fahy
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