As you read this, dear readers, I am perched 2,000 miles above sea level on Mount Mishap, hidden deep within the Himalayan Mountains of Spain. This travelogue will be my final letter to you, as myself and my Indian guide Apunjab will enter the Cavern of the Boggled Stench tonight, and there is no way of knowing when – if ever – I shall return.
The expedition began quietly enough. After finding the decoder ring in Morocco, all ingredients were necessary to open the Door of the Ribald Phalanx. Then disaster strikes: Apunjab eats my last cheese sandwich. Before I could throttle him, we were attacked by Mongolian raiders, who were easily vanquished once the discovered I carried an American Express card. By sunrise, we reached the Twirling Dervishes of Calcutta and should be done with this whole dizzy business by nightfall.
Now I have a few moments to kill before I rush off to conceivable doom, and I would like to explain to you a long-guarded secret. You see, dear readers, what you’ve been reading here this past semester isn’t just random words slapped half-heartlessly together by an ragged and fickle monkey, nay; you have actually been reading a rather delicate mathematical equation governed to me by a sacred tomb: “10,000 Things To Be Happy About,” edited by Barbara Ann Kipfer and with an introduction by William S. Burroughs. The story of how I acquired this book is actually quite a boring one full of intrigue, swordplay and strange eroticism, but, seeing how there’s a noticeable chance I might die tonight, this may be the last time I am able to share its secrets.
It started such a long, long time ago – I think in was last July. I was interning as pirate crewman under the great Captain Lashspasm, the scurviest seadog ever to inhabit Lake Eerie. We chanced to befall a miserable storm and crashed into a strange island inhabited by savages. The rest of my party was slaughtered by the primitives, but I was taken alive and worshipped as a god. ‘Twas there that I met their High Priestess, who immediately fell in love with me. Using my efflorescent charms, I learned that she was in reality the famous pin-up model Bettie Page, who has learned through the island’s rejuvenation pools a way of prolonging life. My stay on the island was cut short, however, when the cannibal god Balthazaar grew jealous and smoted the tribe, leaving me and Bettie to flee by raft into the inevitable rich, dark waters of Overlaying Metaphor.
‘Twas then that a strange and singularly unattractive transformation partook my priestess; for when away from the pool of immortality she became not a mere ghost, nor apparition, but a blood-thirsty zombie, ravenous for my flesh. It befell me with great ill humor to take the oar and slay thine enemy my betrothed; but anyway I missed her, and she tripped over her now-discarded thong into the bottomless, piranha-infested waters beneath.
Searching her belongings thereafter – for I had become quite bored with her passing – I unearthed an ancient, dusty tomb – “5,000 Things to Be Happy About” (It was only later that I got the deluxe version at Barnes and Noble). Gleefully, I ravaged the papers – and by ravage, I mean skillfully underlined all words I knew would impel elation.
Thus ends my story. I hope through the intricate mathematical properties of the book I have propelled nirvana into you. If not, blame science, for now I am cursed by the book with re-occurring nightmares about string theory. I was, however, able to exorcise my columnist ego, in a séance held in the deepest jungles of Nebraska. The ego took the form of the ghost of Abby Van Buren, and it was only through my lack of journalistic integrity that I was able to damn her to hell.
But now I am leaving the newspaper business. It’s not about the truth anymore; it’s about the egos, the deadlines, the all-night cocaine binges and the almighty dollar. I find all these vices substantially useless now, on the throes of the Cavern of the Boggled Stench. But so it goes.
Nonetheless, I think we’ve all learned some important things. I know I’ve learned that 800 words is a lot of words, and I hope you’ve at least learned to read. I’ve learned that humor is like a cat: If you skin it, it dies. I’ve also learned that large vats of pretty much anything are funny. But some of the big questions still remain: Do sweatshops really have outlet stores? Will fast-walking zombies become more popular than slow-walking zombies? Have I sold out by deciding to live in 10 Buick St. next year? Is “Diaria” the only clever thing to come out of my column? Hopefully, all these questions and more shall be answered when I accost the Stench.
For now I must go – Apunjab is calling me thither and I can no longer stay hither. Hopefully by end of all this, I will at least learn the difference between stalagmites and stalactites. Godspeed to all, and remember: Don’t take any wooden nickels.
Patrick May, a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences, has been a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.
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