I'm a person of considerable artistry, in case you hadn't noticed. I mention this not in the interest of mentioning my artistry, which is considerable, but in the interest of mentioning: the Floating Desk. I want one. I mean...I really want one.
The Floating Desk, for those as do not keep up with world affairs, is a product of the Crayola company. This is the same Crayola company responsible for the 55,607,893 crayons that populated my house in the year 1997, until 55,607,891 of them* were eaten by the dog. But enough about my artistry. The fact is, the Floating Desk is inhumanly awesome, as evidenced by the following evidence, courtesy the Evidence Corporation of America ("Having Nothing Better To Do Since 1909"):
• It is a desk.
• You can take it in the bathtub.
• It is a desk you can take in the bathtub.
The Floating Desk comes equipped with a set of oversized waterproof crayons for this very purpose, or for the alternative purpose of feeding them to your oversized waterproof dog. I am a staunch advocate of things you can take in the tub. This I trace back to my childhood, which included the famous instance - I trust you have heard or read of it - in which, as a 2-year-old in Lincoln, Nebraska, I threatened to instigate nuclear warfare unless I were allowed to bring Walter the plush bunny into the bathtub. Fast-forward to Walter's subsequent transformation into Walter the Festering Wad of Mildew, whom the authority figures in my life were Not Allowed to throw away, under penalty of death. Walter the Festering Wad of Mildew still lives. Last I heard, he was terrorizing New Mexico. Of course this is deeply unsettling, on account of it suggests there may be such a place as New Mexico.
Anyway, I was convinced the Floating Desk had been designed just for me, though according to the box (and who are you going to believe, me or a box?**), the floating desk was designed for, quote, "Ages 2-4". This is not, technically speaking, me, nor has it been for nigh two decades, but I hardly think we need cavil. The fact remains, the Floating Desk is the ninth wonder of the universe***, and I mention all this despite the very real risk that one or many of you might decide to purchase it for me, for the low, low price of only $5.99 plus tax, at your local Rite Aid. Don't thank me. This is the sort of bullet I am prepared to take every day.
"Hot diggity," you are saying, "that $5.99 sure is a low, low price. But how can we be convinced of your artistic potential without first hearing an anecdote from your summer job at The Store?"
An excellent point, as it just so happens that, during my summer job at The Store, I was called upon to create: Art. It was expressly requested that I, personally, carry out this task, seeing as - not that I wish to seem immodest - I was nearby at the time. To complete my mission, which was to create a ribbon border for three bulletin boards, I was given a roll of ribbon striped in red, white, and blue. (These colors, incidentally, were designed to symbolize "Independence Day," an occasion of great historical significance wherein our Founding Fathers, following a tad too much wassail, painted themselves red, white, and blue.) In preparation for my artistic endeavor, I then had the following conversation with the manager, who looked like Tintin****:
MANAGER WHO LOOKED LIKE TINTIN: ...okay, so at each corner, you'll want to match up the red with the red, the white with the white, and the blue with the blue.
ME: The red with the red?
ME: And the white with the white?
ME: How 'bout the blue?
Such hashings-out of detail are integral to the creative process, and I credit them in no small measure for the fact that, within just hours, I had created: three mediocre ribbon-borders. Sometimes white met up with white. Sometimes white met up with blue*****. Sometimes the ribbons were not, technically, at the edge of the bulletin boards. Nevertheless, I point them out to anybody who accompanies me to The Store; often, my companion is moved to the point of separating from me. I am exceedingly proud of the fact that my handiwork remains up there, a testament to the artistic potential of Our Youth (Ages 2-4).
This is not to say that I necessarily understand art. My place of education, Aarkvard University, features the Phineas J. and Ernestine T. Sputum Museum of Art, which is chock-full of Artistic Works that appear, to the naked Philistine eye, to be a double-A battery, but which, upon close and sensitive examination, actually turn out to be: a double-A battery. I can only chalk (heh) this up to my own Philistine mindset. Perhaps, by way of penance, I shall drink large quantities of tasty caffeinated beverage.
In the end, if I am to look deep inside myself****** and emerge with the truth, I can tell you, with disarming candor, that I do not truly need a Floating Desk. All I truly need, as a human being of staggering artistic potential, is understanding, acceptance, and a massive dollop of fawning adoration. Or I will accept a check. So long as I can take it in the tub.
*All except for "Cornflower" and "Razzmatazz".
**As of now, I am informed the box holds a slim lead in the polls.
***Eighth being the grocery receipt here on my desk, clearly stating that on December 18, 2007, my father purchased a gallon of "HOMO MILK".
****Also, the meat manager looked like Captain Haddock. Really.
*****Which is, technically, not white, but I shan't bore you with artistic hair-splitting.
******Last time, I found a Cocoa Puff.
©2008, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending