I am at my wits end with that blasted boy, which is an extraordinary feat considering the amount of wits I have.
Today started quite normally; Deen brought me my coffee (too strong), my glasses (too weak, but I suppose my failing eyesight is one of the few things that isn’t his fault), and the paper. After perusing the usual rubbish the world has gotten itself into, I made my way into the study to continue my research on the physics of defenestration. Deen complained about being scratched and tried, once again, to trade the cat for the watermelon. I explained, once again, that when he became a tenured professor (which will occur approximately the same time as the poles flipping and gravity deciding its had quite enough of our nonsense, which incidentally would render my research null and void) he will have full freedom to decide which item he drops out of a window.
Results were the same as yesterday. A watermelon has a faster terminal velocity than a cat (the one exception being that particularly fat tom that took a chuck out of Deen’s wrist, although I believe the results were contaminated by the fact that Deen threw it out of the window, rather than dropping it). Tomorrow we will move on to broccoli. I am interested to see how it compares to cats; both being evil incarnations of their respective species. Note to self: get more cats.
After meticulously recording my findings I settled down to enjoy a book and ease my tired and brilliant mind from the day’s toil. Deen banged about like a drunk goat preparing dinner. I wonder if my next project should study on how the boy manages to dirty seven cast iron pans, four and a half forks (the half being only the handle, I didn’t ask), and a potato masher while making soup (where are the pots?). No, there are some peculiarities of the universe even I don’t want to understand. His stupidity is likely contagious.
Now usually Deen will take his meal in his quarters, as I prefer having only one room of our suite in the university overrun by mice. How he hasn’t starved to death considering he gets more on the floor than in his mouth is beyond me. I have a theory though: he subsists on stupidity, like the airous vinoculous plant found only on the remote slopes of OhmakerIamfallingtomydeath Mountain only needs air to survive. Stupidity and air are both in infinite supply.
But I digress. Today he, quite unannounced, sits down at the table beside my chair and asks me what I am reading. At first I thought he was surely speaking to someone else, when I remembered that I was the only other person in the room (there are still four cats in the cage, one of them plays a fair game of chess, but none of them know how to read). I replied Oedipus Rex (I particularly enjoy some light reading after taxing my brain with my world-changing research, even a genius needs to indulge in some pulp fiction every so often).
He then starts rambling on about the topic of fate. Now, to be entirely honest I did tune out the white noise like I do the dripping faucet. Note to self: Lodge another complaint with maintenance about the faucet. Use smaller words.
He rarely says anything of value and I try not to sully my mind with such pedestrian drivel, but one of his statements warranted rebuttal (his talking can be something akin to poking a bear with a stick, my mind being the majestic bear and his words being a crude and primitive tool, naturally). He said something of the effect that he was pleased fate brought him into my employ.
Now being a man of science, I couldn’t help but be slightly (okay, incredibly) incensed. To believe that there are some willy-nilly beings living in the clouds and pulling our invisible marionette strings is utterly preposterous. Fate is something authors use to make weak plots seem profound. I told him as much.
He then had the audacity to question my verdict as if it were an opinion! He gave me a layman’s version of the plot (as if I needed it), complete with using the word “boning” when referring to Oedipus’ intercourse to his mother. I had to interject and point out that it was a tragically inaccurate euphemism, considering a penis does not have a bone in it. Gah, that word still chafes my brain like cheap wool. I thought my verbal beating would surely end the conversation, but the dunce persisted.
Over the course of the next hour he threw literary examples at me like monkeys fling feces (a lesson learned during the monkey versus cat stage of my research). Romeo and Juliet (hormone driven teenagers with poor communication skills), Macbeth (driven mad by syphilis), The Aeneid (horrible husband, mediocre conquerer), Doctor Faustus (stupid people too stupid to realize they are listening to people even more stupid than they are), Jude the Obscure (they should have gotten married).
The night and my patience wore on until I could no longer endure his voice. The incessant nasally whine was like bees in my teeth. He started talking about another Shakespearian play (glorified hack) when I pointed out the litter boxes needed changing so we wouldn’t wake up to a room that smelled like we were still in the monkey stage of my research. The point of my words pierced his calcified mind and he finally resumed being useful. I watched him sift through the gravel for nuggets of scat and couldn’t help but find it made a fine metaphor for his brain.
While the boy proves himself adequate in performing the mundane tasks one must unfortunately attend to in life (he is talented at removing iodine stains), I do wish he would remember his place in the grand schemes of things (namely my grand schemes). His employment was merely a consequence of my brilliant mind and burgeoning research. I was on fire and he had a bucket of water. Thermodynamics, not fate burdened me with this boy.
~ From the Journal of Digby Q. Wentworth, Department of Uninvented Inventions
Today started quite normally; Deen brought me my coffee (too strong), my glasses (too weak, but I suppose my failing eyesight is one of the few things that isn’t his fault), and the paper. After perusing the usual rubbish the world has gotten itself into, I made my way into the study to continue my research on the physics of defenestration. Deen complained about being scratched and tried, once again, to trade the cat for the watermelon. I explained, once again, that when he became a tenured professor (which will occur approximately the same time as the poles flipping and gravity deciding its had quite enough of our nonsense, which incidentally would render my research null and void) he will have full freedom to decide which item he drops out of a window.
Results were the same as yesterday. A watermelon has a faster terminal velocity than a cat (the one exception being that particularly fat tom that took a chuck out of Deen’s wrist, although I believe the results were contaminated by the fact that Deen threw it out of the window, rather than dropping it). Tomorrow we will move on to broccoli. I am interested to see how it compares to cats; both being evil incarnations of their respective species. Note to self: get more cats.
After meticulously recording my findings I settled down to enjoy a book and ease my tired and brilliant mind from the day’s toil. Deen banged about like a drunk goat preparing dinner. I wonder if my next project should study on how the boy manages to dirty seven cast iron pans, four and a half forks (the half being only the handle, I didn’t ask), and a potato masher while making soup (where are the pots?). No, there are some peculiarities of the universe even I don’t want to understand. His stupidity is likely contagious.
Now usually Deen will take his meal in his quarters, as I prefer having only one room of our suite in the university overrun by mice. How he hasn’t starved to death considering he gets more on the floor than in his mouth is beyond me. I have a theory though: he subsists on stupidity, like the airous vinoculous plant found only on the remote slopes of OhmakerIamfallingtomydeath Mountain only needs air to survive. Stupidity and air are both in infinite supply.
But I digress. Today he, quite unannounced, sits down at the table beside my chair and asks me what I am reading. At first I thought he was surely speaking to someone else, when I remembered that I was the only other person in the room (there are still four cats in the cage, one of them plays a fair game of chess, but none of them know how to read). I replied Oedipus Rex (I particularly enjoy some light reading after taxing my brain with my world-changing research, even a genius needs to indulge in some pulp fiction every so often).
He then starts rambling on about the topic of fate. Now, to be entirely honest I did tune out the white noise like I do the dripping faucet. Note to self: Lodge another complaint with maintenance about the faucet. Use smaller words.
He rarely says anything of value and I try not to sully my mind with such pedestrian drivel, but one of his statements warranted rebuttal (his talking can be something akin to poking a bear with a stick, my mind being the majestic bear and his words being a crude and primitive tool, naturally). He said something of the effect that he was pleased fate brought him into my employ.
Now being a man of science, I couldn’t help but be slightly (okay, incredibly) incensed. To believe that there are some willy-nilly beings living in the clouds and pulling our invisible marionette strings is utterly preposterous. Fate is something authors use to make weak plots seem profound. I told him as much.
He then had the audacity to question my verdict as if it were an opinion! He gave me a layman’s version of the plot (as if I needed it), complete with using the word “boning” when referring to Oedipus’ intercourse to his mother. I had to interject and point out that it was a tragically inaccurate euphemism, considering a penis does not have a bone in it. Gah, that word still chafes my brain like cheap wool. I thought my verbal beating would surely end the conversation, but the dunce persisted.
Over the course of the next hour he threw literary examples at me like monkeys fling feces (a lesson learned during the monkey versus cat stage of my research). Romeo and Juliet (hormone driven teenagers with poor communication skills), Macbeth (driven mad by syphilis), The Aeneid (horrible husband, mediocre conquerer), Doctor Faustus (stupid people too stupid to realize they are listening to people even more stupid than they are), Jude the Obscure (they should have gotten married).
The night and my patience wore on until I could no longer endure his voice. The incessant nasally whine was like bees in my teeth. He started talking about another Shakespearian play (glorified hack) when I pointed out the litter boxes needed changing so we wouldn’t wake up to a room that smelled like we were still in the monkey stage of my research. The point of my words pierced his calcified mind and he finally resumed being useful. I watched him sift through the gravel for nuggets of scat and couldn’t help but find it made a fine metaphor for his brain.
While the boy proves himself adequate in performing the mundane tasks one must unfortunately attend to in life (he is talented at removing iodine stains), I do wish he would remember his place in the grand schemes of things (namely my grand schemes). His employment was merely a consequence of my brilliant mind and burgeoning research. I was on fire and he had a bucket of water. Thermodynamics, not fate burdened me with this boy.
~ From the Journal of Digby Q. Wentworth, Department of Uninvented Inventions
