05 March 2006

The Anti-Macassar Liberation Front

Newark International Airport. It is the gateway for the upper East coast of the United States. It has been said that if you wait there long enough, you will see all the types of people that travel to and from the United States.

I am not talking about the better, moneyed sort; those fly in and out of JFK. I am talking about the baser, vile, detritus of mankind. The sort of people that write blogs, or worse yet; read them.

As I was standing in a Continental ticket queue, I had the opportunity to test that theory. After only the third hour in line, I bumped into an old school chum, or rather, he into me.

“Hey, no cuts!” I proclaimed indignantly, before recognizing him. “Well, I’ll be! Thompson, is that you?”

“At your service!” He replied magnanimously, whilst cutting in front of me. “Have you heard from any of the gang?”

“Well, I did hear of Napier Minor.” I replied, really wanting to rag him out for cutting.

“Do tell?”

"Well, you recall that Napier Minor was a strange lad, chock full of odd thoughts like being a credit to his parents and bringing academic honor to the school. While he was clearly off his rocker, he was harmless and I felt sorry enough for him to want to help. " I always was the noble sort.

"Do go on." Said Thompson.

"Well, since Harry Wilson was at Number 10 at that time, the National Health wouldn’t treat such disorders, so we had to help him out as best we could. "

"Yes....." Thompson didn't appear to like where the conversation was heading.

"You must recall that the school’s wiring was too decrepit to be able to shock him back into reality. Though we tried valiantly; we only managed to burn down the gymnasium. It was then that we turned to a novel American treatment; the 'Swirly'."

Now, a swirly is administered by placing the patient’s head in the bowl of a commode and flushing, sometimes repeatedly. The icy cold water would shock the patient while simultaneously styling his hair into a charming soft-serve ice cream cone appearance.

A few weeks of this treatment did the trick, and henceforth Napier would assiduously avoid the classrooms; especially if we were there.

The ungrateful boy never thanked us, and took up the hobbies of sobbing uncontrollably and bed wetting, but we all supposed that those were far less crippling social defects than blowing our grading curve.

"Yes, I vaguely recall it." Thompson repied uncomfortably. He damn well should remember it, he was manning the flusher.

“Well, sadly Napier's condition deteriorated and eventually he sank so low as to take a Nu Labour seat in Parlaiment."

"Ghastly!" Said Thompson, trying to edge away. I moved closer.

"It gets worse!" I said conspiratorially. "Last year, he came over all ‘Lord Byron’ and went off to join the Anti-Macassars in their struggle to free the Chaise region from Ottoman influence.”

“Are you taking a piss on me?” Thompson asked suspiciously.

“Actually, yes I am. Quite literally.” After all, I’d been in line for three hours and had a fullish bladder.

And that's the way I likes it.