Note: This story appeared in our April Fools Distorter issue and is for comedic value only.
We need to talk. Specifically, we need to talk about the Pop Tart under your fridge. It looks like it’s been there since the Renaissance.
And that’s not all. We need to talk about why your indoor pool is filled with Jell-O, and how to get the lid off your only jar of Skippy. We need to talk about this sub-basement shrine filled with collectible string instruments (Banjos? Really?). And we need to talk about why Haefner’s underwear is in your dryer.
Listen, Desnugget, I understand you’ve got a heavy burden. Who else is going to screw with registration and switch everyone over to sextesters? It sure wasn’t going to happen by popular vote.
And, honestly, when it comes to that, I appreciate your guts. I especially appreciate them while relaxing in this orange-brown leather massage chair. I appreciate them while sampling this freezer full of F’Reals, and while gazing into this massive diorama of Henrietta locked in a perpetual snow globe.
So, you see, Desexler, you have fans. You have, in fact, four rotaries and two box fans, counting the one in your attic, which is crazy if you think about it. And I totally am.
Who needs five dining room chairs??? There's only one of you! And what’s with all the spoons in this drawer? I don’t know how you live with yourself. Students pay tuition because of swivel-spouts like you.
You ought to be ashamed of the way you’ve been carrying on. We see how you drink at lunch, and Yoo-Hoos are an unforgivable sin. Why, I ought to smash these bottles right now!
Say, whatever happened to Paula Abdul?
I’m sorry, Desktop, I apologize. I didn’t mean to cause alarm like that. I am, for instance, not right now gazing at your umbrella closet with a wild look in my eye. Nor am I pondering the explosive force of a Chevy Volt driven at a high rate of speed straight into ImagineRIT.
That’s beneath me. I have grander plans. They involve Cottonelle.
The truth is, I kid because I love. And I know you love, too.
I know, in particular, about the stack of Reporters piled in the third floor half-bath, the one you hide in to get away from Rebecca’s latest Carbon-Neutral Lemonade Stand construction job or World Peace Brass Quintet practice jam. It’s perfectly natural, Desley, we all do it. Mostly on the SAU’s A-level or the library’s fourth floor.
So we’re all in this together, and we’re all together in one other thing: We’re way cooler than those kids who whine about getting football back. They can all go stuff a sock in it.
In conclusion, Desultry, how do you feel about winter sports? Because I’m in your house, and I just found the keys to your snowmobile. Ride with me.
[Current Editor’s Note: While we’ve generally stuck to parody names for this issue, the wordplay here was too good to pass up.]