The Snarchives 1/9/2008: Aarkvard University is a Home Depot

Bad news. In a dramatic twist and shout that has left all of America reeling with indifference, Aarkvard University was officially determined Tuesday night to be: not a university at all.

It all began when we were left off the Consumer Reports list. Again. This happens every year. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Don't you mean the U.S. News and World Report, America's most trusted source for lists of names of colleges since whatever year it was established, which I don't feel like looking up?"

The answer is no; I really do mean Consumer Reports. This is on account of a scientific study conducted via scientific means in 1997, wherein Aarkvard was scientifically compared to (a) Stanford University and (b) an Amana microwave. The study found that - in the words of one researcher - "Aarkvard is more like the microwave, but not as good with potatoes". It should be borne in mind, for those of you who follow current affairs, that this study was conducted years before the inauguration of university President Ephram M. Cloaca, and thus bears no relation to what he was allegedly found doing to a potato in his office last week.

"I want to stress that this claim remains unproven," President Cloaca told our redoubtable student newspaper, the Aarkvard Suppository. "Also, the potato wanted it."* The potato could not be reached for comment, but is said to be living with friends.

So once a year, we have four or five Stealth Plants from Consumer Reports come in to act the part of totally unsuspicious students. We aren't supposed to know they're plants, of course, but one can tell from the subtle things, such as:

• They are all at least 55 years of age.
• The fronts of their matching red sweater-vests say “CONSUMER REPORTS”.
• The backs of the vests say “WHATEVER WE ARE, WE’RE NOT PLANTS.”

I have been lavishly celebrated for my shrewdness many a time, and there is no reason for you to hold back now.

Anyway, the moment of doom came near the end of inspection, when one agent, whom I shall call "Agent Alias**," took it upon himself - this is how many great civilizations such as Rome and Nebraska have fallen - to use a toilet. This he accomplished with élan, and for a time it seemed all would be well. The entire Aarkvard population (or, if you prefer Latin, "corpse") stood with its hearts pounding.*** It was then that Agent Alias noticed something. Actually, several somethings.

"Say," he exclaimed, 1930s-style, "I'm thirty feet up in the air! And I'm on a shelf! And everyone here is wearing an orange apron!"

Silence. The jig was up. Yes: Aarkvard University is a Home Depot.

It all holds together, when you think about it. The midair restrooms; the preponderance of classes in Paint Stocking****; the continual requests for Clean-Up in Aisle Six. But, on a personal level, it is difficult to accept. Nothing against Home Depot, mind you. The stores are spacious and comprehensive, the employees endlessly helpful and friendly, as evidenced by their rule wherein, if a customer comes within 10 feet, they are required, per company policy, to be unattractive.

I kid, of course! It’s 50 feet. But it is more than a little humiliating to have your supposed place of education “outed” in this fashion. Nobody takes us Aarkvard students seriously now, except to ask us where the lawn mowers are. Nonetheless I am proud to say that, in the true Aarkvard spirit – call me a softy if you wish – we do not know.*****

So we remain unrecognized not only as an institution, but also in the field of knick-knacks, where we find ourselves consistently beaten not only by the microwave, but by the Walkman, the Pez dispenser, the University of Pennsylvania, etc. Yet Aarkvard (“Where Everybody Knows Your Shame”) remains undaunted. We will forge ahead just as we have forged ahead in the past, and in the future, which has not actually occurred yet, except for a little bit of it since I wrote the beginning part of this sentence, but technically the aforementioned little bit is now the past, and now I notice this keeps happening, so let’s call it a grey area.

My point is, we Aarkvard students remain, as ever, fine upstanding collegiate beings. Come visit us sometime and see for yourself. I’ll be in Aisle Six.



*He could see it in its eyes (ba-doom-CHHSH).
**His real name is “Agent Pseudonym”.
***We have a lot of hearts. Like cows. Not that I claim to be a Chem major.
****Coming next fall: “PNTSTCK 124 – PAINT STOCKING: MAN OR BEAST?”
*****We have, after all, a reputation to preserve.


©2008, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

The Snarchives 1/5/2008: Rub-a-Dub-Dub, Great Art in the Tub

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?

MWLLT: Yes.

ME: And the white with the white?

MWLLT: Yes.

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

The Snarchives 12/26/2007: There Are Rules Involved

Here at the Bureau of Highly Suspicious Things, Highly Suspicious Things Dept., the burden is typically upon us to a) observe the Highly Suspicious and b) report it for your viewing pleasure.* Thus we do not take it lightly when we find ourselves on the receiving end of such a label. I do not wish to name names**, but I am looking at a top-secret classified blog-powerin' Internettin' service which I shall call "JiveLournal".*** I single out J.L. on account of they have seen fit to suggest to me (right in the middle of my vacation, no less) that I am highly suspicious by dint of - this is true - having JiveLournal "Interests" consisting of more than four words. This never came up until the other day, when I had the gall to suggest to J.L. that among my myriad interests - some of which involve actually doing stuff - was the TV show "Whose Line is it Anyway". This has since been revealed to consist of five words.

"We're sorry," J.L. informed me by means of a snotty cyberwindow. "Interests with more than four words are not permitted."

Well.

As you can imagine, this really raised my hackles.**** It did not escape my notice that while this "interest," an innocuous television program, has apparently been deemed Radical And Dangerous by the J.L. honcho contingent, interests such as "Percy Grainger" (which contains, at last count, two words) are evidently considered perfectly mainstream. For those not gifted with my minimal knowledge of weird musical figures, I should explain that Grainger


WARNING WARNING WARNING - ENTERING TRUTH ZONE - I AM INCAPABLE OF MAKING THIS STUFF UP

was the brilliant Australian composer and pianist who a) once threw a tennis ball over a house, so he could run through the house and catch it (the ball) on the other side, b) evidently once refused to play a recital in a certain town*****, because he felt the townspeople were too ugly; and c) apparently subscribed to the belief that his wife's personal area featured tentacles. (Lest you think I shirk my duties as a scholarly type, I have observed that Grainger also wrote music.)

WARNING WARNING WARNING - EXITING TRUTH ZONE - WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED WAD OF FLAGRANT LIES

"Yes, this is all well and good," you are saying, "and I was especially hoping, this holiday season, to be informed of Mrs. Grainger's alleged tentacles. But what, Nicola, is the solution to this seemingly insurmountable hurdle JiveLournal has thrown in humanity's way?" To which I say: learn to pronounce my name right. The accent is on the first syllable. Now then, the solution is simple: never have any interests. Apathy is the soft pretzel of life; which is to say, I have just likened it to a soft pretzel, seeing as I am hungry and I have a coupon here for soft pretzels.

But this is not my point. My point, which I will have by the end of this sentence or later, is: rules are bad. This brings me to the totally separate issue of (cue: Night on Bald Mountain):



Those of you with nominal knowledge of history will recall that this was designed in bygone days (Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, but not Wednesday) by an educational trailblazer whom legend has it was named Fred or Kimberly. Due to the combined effects of a lobotomy, excessive Diet Sprite, and a deep roiling hatred of mankind due to 35 years in Customer Service, Fred or Kimberly devised the following outline for his or her brainchild, which remains unaltered to this day:

Students (hereinafter “STUDENTS”) MUST enroll in MORE THAN SIX (6) but NO MORE THAN 17.53 (DIX-SEPT point CINQUANTE-TROIS) semester (“SEPTEMBER”) credits in any or all or none of the following (“ENSUING”): COMPUTATIONAL HOO-HA, APPLIED PUDDING CONSUMPTION (100-level or above), ASTROLINGUISTIC MATHEMATIPOLITICAL ANGLIVEGETARIAN THEORY, MADE-UP FOREIGN LANGUAGES (“German”), or possibly NOT. Failure to COMPLY with the foresaid (“FORESAID”) UNIVERSITY REGULATIONS will result in your being summarily EATEN BY WOLVERINES BWA HA HA or possibly being WRITTEN UP unless you satisfactorily COMPLETE (“compute”) a SUBSTITUTORY COURSE of the satisfactory AND/OR/BUT substitutial VARIETY in one of the following categories: NATURAL SCIENCE, QUANTITATIVE SCIENCE, QUANTITATITATITATIVE SCIENCE, PUTATIVE SCIENCE, POTATO SCIENCE, THE LATE GENE RAYBURN, UNFORTUNATE BODILY FUNCTIONS, EMBARRASSING MEMORIES, JUNK MAIL, or SOMETHING YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. At culmination (“ABDOMEN”) of semester, student MUST or MUST NOT demonstrate and/or show PROFICIATORY CAPA-MA-BILITY in one or more or less of these subjects as reflected in a CUMULATIVE (“GERMAN”) Grade Point Blank of EXACTLY 3.66927195113 and ONE SIXTEENTH HA HA SUCKER We Accept American Express.

This is a shrewd plan, designed to ensure that no human being, especially you, will ever graduate from Aarkvard. This of course means you will eventually die at Aarkvard, for which the penalty incidentally is also death by wolverine.

But this is not to say we should let rules and regulations get us down, especially not at this merriest holliest jolliest time of the year. At this merriest holliest jolliest time of the year, we must instead look deep inside our hearts to what truly matters to us, moves us, nay, defines our very existences as humans. I refer, of course, to Diet Sprite.




*Disclaimer: Experience May Not Actually Be Pleasurable.
**And what exactly does this expression mean, anyway? Is it suggesting you should take a name, such as “Waldo,” and proclaim, “Henceforth, my good man, you shall be known as ‘Gretchen’”? This expression sucks. Thank you.
***Not its neal rame.
****As of now, a hackle is still stuck to the ceiling.
*****Given my particular weltanschauung, I maintain this was Sarcoptic, Maine. The members of the town council, upon becoming aware of my theory, responded by narrowing their three eyes.




©2007, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

The Snarchives 12/18/2007: Final Snarxam

There's a lot to be said for university education. It's fat-free, for one, and usually treatable with a liberal dab of Desitin. Nonetheless, flaws abound in the methods whereby its purveyors (universities) serve it up*. These flaws are many and varied, in the sense that there are many of them, and they vary from each other. I shall not attempt to list all of them here, on account of I have not a) come up with them, nor do I b) feel like it. But one flaw stands head and shoulders** above the rest:

~~~FLAW No. 1: The purveyor of university education is not ME.~~~

This, friends, is a fatal flaw, in the sense that it really pisses me off. Thus have I undertaken - in light of these past weeks' spate of what Aarkvard University calls "Final Exams" - a highly posh Latin term meaning "something Aarkvard University calls 'Final Exams'" - to prepare, just for you***, my own final exam. Here comes your chance to prove your extensive knowledge of whatever it is I feel like making up questions about; or, in lieu of that, to eat something****. On your marks - get set - one desk between each of you; no sneaky peeking, now! - and:

1. Is it? If not, what is? Explain.
A. Yes.
B. Maybe.
C. Billings, Montana.

2. As of this writing, what sound are the video-gamers in the common room adjacent me currently making, in distress over their spaceships' failure to do whatever it is spaceships do?
A. "GNAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!"
B. "NRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
C. Billings, Montana.

3. In Euripides' Moby-Dick, which character first makes use of the rhetorical device commonly known as a "chiasmus" or "besciamelle"?
A. Steve.
B. Jebediah.
C. Mr. Bouncy.
D. I will thank you not to miscredit the work of Ayn Rand.
E. How about those Knicks?

4. True or false: What kind of name is "Ayn"?

5. In Hamlet, Act IV, Scene VII, Line ZZB, Suite 3, what is the underlying meaning in Shakespeare's repeated use of asyndeton?
A. Huh?
B. Beats me.
C. I said, I don't know.
D. I'll give YOU underlying meaning.

6. In the made-up language known as "Russian," the letter they claim is "P" is in fact:
A. "R".
B. "U".
C. Highly suspicious.

7. True or false: In preparing this test, the author made no effort whatsoever to devise legitimate questions. Instead she went to the mall.
A. No comment.
B. I plead the fifth.
C. Wouldn't you like to know.
D. False. She also ate Chinese food.

8. What kind of test is this, anyway?
A. Yellow-bellied.
B. Chinese Crested.
C. Deep Dish.

10. What happened to No. 9?
A. Yes.


Time! Turn in your answer sheets. Highest scorer gets a Jolly Rancher, or possibly not.








*These methods being: Con Carne, Double Glazed, or With Diet Sprite.
**Disclaimer: Flaw May In Fact Have Neither Head Nor Shoulders.
***Disclaimer #2: Preparation May Not Have Been Just For You.
****Experts recommend Option 2.



©2007, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

The Snarchives 12/15/2007: Snark for the Holidays

Sometimes, when we have come to the point of resolute belief in a vile world devoid of any shred of redeeming quality, at the darkest minute* of the darkest hour, we are shown the shining face of Hope. I refer, of course, to The Price is Right. My particular irredeemable morning (this one) was brightened immeasurably by the uplifting story of recent contestant Mrs. Clarabel F. Wrrb**, of Bloomington, IN, now up in arms over the prize she won on the show. Mrs. Wrrb is accusing the Price is Right honchos of false advertising, inasmuch as she was promised a Pontiac Stigmata, whereas the prize she actually received, in the words of a Price is Right spokesman, "may or may not have been in fact a bendy straw".***

Yes, the resolution to put the noose aside and forge ahead with our lives is influenced in no small part by such stories. That and physical fitness. Physical fitness and death do not mesh, as evidenced by a recent Aarkvard study in which death was proven - via a complicated scientific process involving much complicated science - to be the third-leading cause of sedentary activity.**** The researchers at the study's helm were able to prove this via the highly scientific method of killing someone physically unfit, after which time, to quote the researchers, "the subject remained physically unfit".

But life goes on, or at least my life does, which means I have to go to the Aarkvard gym (motto: "Now With 33% Less Asbestos"). Unfortunately, it does not suffice to go once. Repeated voyages must be made, which means, sooner or later, you will find yourself forced to: interact with other human beings. I am generally against interaction with other human beings, seeing as it tends to involve - far be it from me to make a "blanket statement" - interaction. Take the other day: I was on the treadmill, reading my English text, wherein the author makes the highly suspicious assertion that our language (English) is filled with land mine-style "rhetorical devices" with names like "hendiadys". This is highly suspicious on account of the following:

1. They are made up.
2. They tend to sound faintly sinister, as in, "Suddenly Vlad found himself staring down the barrel of a .38 caliber auxesis."
3. They also sound more than faintly bacterial, as in, "Mom, Dad, I don't know how to tell you this, but Eric gave me anaphora."

From these three examples we can see, most clearly, that I know how to list three examples. But I digress. My point is that such books work wonders as social lubricant, as evidenced by the following conversation, which Factually Took Place***** when a guy of the male variety assumed position on the treadmill beside me:

GUY OF THE MALE VARIETY: What's that?
ME: A book.
GOTMV: Huh.
ME: Yes.

(Intermission)

GOTMV: Is it an English book?
ME: Yes.
GOTMV: Huh. Is it Strunk and White?
ME: No, it's - (I show him the book.)
GOTMV: Huh. It looked like Strunk and White.
ME: Oh. Well, it's not.
GOTMV: Huh. (Meaningful pause.) Do you study English?
ME: Yes, I'm taking a Shakespeare class.
GOTMV: Oh. Shakespeare is good.
ME: Yes.

Having thus Made His Move, Mr. Smooth returned to his cycling, and I mine. This is the sort of steamy social interface that occurs daily within Aarkvard University, and I just thought you should know.

Meanwhile, the Holiday Season approaches apace, not that you could tell from the barren, cheerless university landscape, with nary a candy cane or eggnog dollop in sight. This atmosphere is something else I would find highly suspicious, were I not aware of the latest Initiative from university President Ephram M. Cloaca (motto: "Making Affable Faces Since Whatever Year They Brought Him In Here Which I Don't Feel Like Looking Up").****** This is the Elf Dissection Initiative, whereby the Aarkvard Biology Department is allowed to dissect elves for the purpose of elf dissection. Needless to say, they are bringing down the entire Christmas operation piece by piece; but the downside is outweighed by the scientific benefits to humankind offered by the experiment, in the sense that - in the words of one eminent Aarkvard biologist - "it's fun". Me, I'm just looking forward to that moment Monday night when I step off the jet into the state of Maine, secure in the warm holiday glow that can come only from the knowledge that you will summarily die from the combined effects of hypothermia and hunters.

I close, for the moment, with a question to you, my faithful readership leagues (4) strong: have any among you been lucky enough to witness the recent car commercial in which a major car company (to protect their identity, I will refer to them only by the pseudonym "Zadillac") seems to be suggesting - and once again please note, legal-eagle types, that I said SEEMS to be suggesting - that you should have sex with their product? It's not to be missed. The commercial, I mean. If you haven't seen it already, I suggest you seek it out at once. Don't thank me - consider it my Christmas gift to you. Better yet, tell you what: I'll throw in, for each and every one of you, a Pontiac Stigmata.




*8:33.
**Not her real name. Her real name is "Mrs. Clarabel W. Frrb".
***This was discovered following a minor problem with the transmission.
****I suppose you'd like to know what the first two are.
*****Disclaimer: Like You Would Know If I Made It Up Ha Ha Ha.
******Lest you subscribe to a spurious belief, allow me to disabuse you right now of the notion that President Cloaca's only function is devising Initiatives. He also wears ties.



©2007, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

The Snarchives 11/25/2007: Snarksgiving

I’m writing this on my flight back to Plantar International Airport, having finally made it home from Aarkvard this past week. Technically, this was my second return to Maine since the start of the school year, but there is an old saying that goes, “You can’t go home again until you have witnessed your father hurling withered pomegranates across the backyard into the depths of the forest.” I am proud to say I came home.

Sadly, I was unable to capture the aforementioned event on film, due to extenuating circumstances such as not feeling like getting up. Thus have I taken it upon myself to prepare the following artistic rendering of the occasion*:





Lest you labor under the misapprehension that my sojourns to the Deep North are all “fun and games”, I will have you know my foremost objective, besides consuming half my weight in yams, was to keep my nose to the grindstone and finish my academic assignments. This I accomplished admirably, especially if you define “my nose” as “my entire body,” “the grindstone” as “the couch,” and “finish my academic assignments” as “watch videos of guys figure skating”. This is the sort of bullet one must take in the name of academia.

Nor was I idle on the observational front. You loyal Snark-followers will no doubt recall my propensity for a) noticing the immaterial and b) mentioning it. On that note, you’ll be glad to know** that I noted the following


FIVE THINGS ABOUT MAINE THAT ARE HIGHLY SUSPICIOUS

1. Maine claims to contain a location by the name of “Poland,” whereas according to my sources***, “Poland” is in fact located in an entirely different country (Poland). This would appear to be highly suspicious.

2. According to my friend Christopher, the state soil is a guy named “Cecil”. This would also appear to be highly suspicious.

3. It is late in Maine. Like, really late. This came as a major shock to my system. I’d gotten lulled by the circadian rhythms of Plantar, where it tends to be some reasonable time such as “four P.M.”; whereas in Maine, it tends to be approximately next Tuesday. Also, it is pitch-black, except of course during Daylight Hours (8:28 – 8:29 A.M.). I blame “Cecil”.

4. There is no 4.

5. The generic Rice Krispies (alias: Crispy Rice) of the local supermarket, Stop and Shop, feature on their box a story about two anthropomorphized foxes who – Stop and Shop (if that IS their name) claims – were pivotal figures in the creation of Crispy Rice. At least, I think this is the upshot of the story. I only read part.


I also had the opportunity to revisit my childhood, which began a long time ago and ended when, in a cinematic twist worthy of any “coming-of-age” film, I received a letter to the effect that my tax forms were Invalid As Submitted. The revisitation occurred when my sister, who has a hobby of excavating the obscure – defined as “stuff deathly uninteresting to everyone but our immediate selves” – found a clip online from the TV show Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? This was a huge event for me, seeing as that show defined my tenderest years, alongside precocious verbal skills and eating a dog nummy. My most vivid memory is of the show’s band, Rockapella, singing the theme song. This stayed with me for 15 years on account of the particularly immortal phrase:

…nin-em-BUH-de-lee…

Of course this seemed perfectly acceptable to me as a little kid. Little kids accept everything, including Disney and adults. As the years wore on, though, I began to question (usually during timed tests) my interpretation of the phrase. I was sure after 15 years I would discern the real text. So my sister played me the clip, and this is what I heard:

…nin-em-BUH-de-lee…

Needless to say, this turned me into a raving madwoman. You never want to think fifteen years have been for naught.

ME: What is that?! WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY SAYING!?!!
MY SISTER: When?
ME: “Nin-em-BUH-de-lee”. It sounded like “nin-em-BUH-de-lee” fifteen YEARS ago and it sounds like “nin-em-BUH-de-lee” NOW.
MY SISTER: They’re saying, “From Berlin down to Belize.”
ME: WHAT??!
MY SISTER: Listen.
ROCKAPELLA: Nin-em-BUH-de-lee

And finally, I have been informed, via a series of conduits beginning with the esteemed Pib Press**** and leading to my father by way of Uruguay*****, West Virginia, and IHOP, that somebody, somewhere, enjoys my snarkular pourings-forth but wishes I would get over my “asterisk fetish”. Fetish. Such a strong word. The kind of word that forces you to stand outside yourself and take careful, objective stock of who you are. In moments of such sober self-realization as this, one can only say: ****************************************

** Also: Nin-em-BUH-de-lee. And I MEAN THAT.







*Reprinted with permission of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
**Disclaimer: You May Not Actually Be Glad To Know.
***This one, that one, and also that other source over there.
****Lest you think I have “sold out,” I will refrain from mentioning that their address is pibpress@verizon.net, and I certainly will not point out that if you do not buy a book right now, the angels will kill you.
*****Or, as it is sometimes known, “Poland”.
******************************************Oh-h-h baby.


©2007, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

The Snarchives 11/21/2007: Phoning it in

So: I got a job. This is an eye-opening experience for us privileged Aarkvard University students, in that it forces us to take a step backwards from our massive sense of entitlement and say, "HEY! GIMME BACK MY MASSIVE SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT!"

My place of employment is the Aarkvard Phone Room, so called because it is - get ready - a room with phones in it.* There is also a refrigerator, which, thanks to university president Ephram M. Cloaca's recent Diet Coke Initiative**, would be filled with Diet Coke at all times if, in the words of President Cloaca, "anybody actually put Diet Coke in it". But the thought is there.

Of the work itself - calling unsuspecting Aarkvard alumni, referred to among those of us in The Biz as "prospects" - I can only say it is less than stimulating, rather in the sense that ice is "less than hot". Twice weekly I take part in the Aarkvard Phone-a-Thon, an ancient tradition established in ancient times*** by the great eminent pioneer-type guy Elias U. Phone-a-Thon, who was also responsible for fire, Bisquick, the Car Talk guys, and the sexy green M&M but not the other ones. Shortly before his passing due to a bear-related mauling****, Phone-a-Thon left behind the following guidelines for practitioners of the art that bears his name:

I. Pleasantly greet prospect.
II. Pleasantly introduce yourself as a current Aarkvard student.
III. Pleasantly solicit handsome contribution to Aarkvard Annual Fund.
IV. Pleasantly explain that prospect's failure to make handsome contribution to Aarkvard Annual Fund will result in your pleasantly hunting down and pleasantly cutting prospect.
V. Good!

I guess I shouldn't complain. Per Guideline IV, I have a job that involves travel. But such sojourns grow taxing. This goes double if your prospect has the gall to live in a faraway state such as Nevada, which is far away from everywhere, including Nevada. Furthermore, you try finding a graceful way to explain to your friends just why you have so many Ambiguous Errands To Run.

Such are grueling experiences, to be sure; but they are nothing compared to when I got owned by the little kid. This really happened. As evidence I present the following transcript, which is Authentically True, by which I mean I may or may not***** have made it up:

LITTLE KID: Hello?
ME: Hi, there. Is Mrs. Simpkins available?
(Long pause. Breathing on the other end.)
ME: Hello?
LITTLE KID: Who is this?
ME: My name is Nicola. May I speak with Mrs. Simpkins?
LITTLE KID (ominously): Are you a kid or a grown-up?
ME: I'm calling from the Aarkvard University Annual Fund. Is your mother there?
LITTLE KID: Are you a KID or a GROWN-UP?
ME: I...could you just say Aarkvard is calling?
(Really long pause. Heavily suspicious breathing.)
LITTLE KID: What's your mother's name?
ME: I...uh, I...I mean - uh...
LITTLE KID: (Click.)

But worst by far is when you have to hit up parents of current students. This is nothing short of excruciating. You feel so bad asking these people for anything. Ninety-nine percent of the time you get some sweet mom who sighs gravidly and says something like, "Oh, gosh, I'd really love to help you out, but, you know, we're already paying fifty thousand a year for Lauren to attend, and that would be one thing on its own, but it's just been so hard for us ever since Jim's spontaneous combustion last April, and wouldn't you know it, we're still finding bits of him in the strangest places, like that retina in the La-Z-Boy, and then there's little Brandon's iron lung and the dog has diarrhea and never even MIND the time-share and..." At which point you have to inform her, very gently, that you must kill her. That's when she sighs again and says wanly, "Okay, honey. Well, let's make sure you have my correct address," and you really just feel so rude.

Nonetheless it's all worth it at the end of the week, when you receive a paycheck for all your hard work, minus federal taxes, state taxes, municipal taxes, venereal taxes, cinnamon-swirl taxes, moo goo gai taxes, etc. There are others. I could go on and on, but I have to run an errand.


*This sort of convoluted logic is typical of academic institutions. One must learn to cope.
**Initiatives are very popular at Aarkvard (motto: "Death Before Genuine Proactivity").
***4:30-6:00.
****At 6:01.
*****Or may.



©2007, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending