Baaaaaad

 

      It has recently reached the public ear that I am a bad person.  Bad as in baaaaaad.  Like a sheep with sunglasses—you know the type.  Apparently my reputation is based on my deviant behavior toward cups.  [ill]

      The JSA had the exact same squat little clear glass cups that I drank cranberry juice out of in the MTC.  I have it on very good authority that these same cups are also employed in the dorms back at BYU proper and also at Ricks.  They are quite the ubiquitous little cups.

      My road to baaaaaad began with the discovery of a hidden talent.  I am wonderfully capable of taking squat little clear glass cups and slamming them upside down whilst keeping the victim’s choice of drink intact.  Someone, say Shalayne (poor girl who was consistently unlucky in this respect), returns to the table after deciding she wants a muffin after all, only to discover that while she was gone her glass of OJ had mysteriously turned itself upside down.

      What a conundrum such a happenstance would present!

      But of course, after a while, people catch on.  And, after a while, I discovered another, more subtle outlet for baaaaaad.

      This outlet also involved the squat little clear glass cups.  The inspiration came one day while we were dining on corned beef and cabbage.  As per my culinary custom, I wanted to enjoy my steamin’ greens with a bit of vinegar splashed thereupon.  I headed to the kitchen and asked Brother Davis, lord of the kitchen, if I mightn’t have some.  He poured some into a squat little clear glass cup and handed it to me.  I returned to my seat and noticed that several of my neighbors were drinking apple juice.  Apple juice, I noted, was very similar in color and general appearance to apple cider vinegar.  Hmmmmm, I thought.  Hmmmmmmmm.  Needless to say, my next baaaaaad plan was to swap cups with someone.  Someone was Jeff, my all-time favorite flunkey.  But sadly, Jeff was too clever for me.

      Plan B: Use Syringe.  When I had my wisdom teeth out the July before Nauvoo, I was given a swell syringe to clean out my holes with.  As my holes had long since closed up, the syringe had sat dormant among my other toiletries.  Thanks to baaaaaad however, the syringe was returned to active duty.

[ill]

      First, of course, I very thoroughly cleaned it (of course).  Next, I brought it to dinner and filled it with vinegar.  Because of its angled tip, it was simple to casually deposit a few ccs into flunkey Jeff’s milk.

       It would have worked perfectly except for one unexpected result: the milk curdled instantly.  Jeff, possessing the profound insight he does, blamed me.  So I casually contaminated Melissa’s orange soda.  Jeff narked.  So, just to demonstrate the harmlessness of vinegared soda, I had a swallow.  And wow!  Soda with vinegar tastes like soda without vinegar, only with a very peculiar and awful kick that screams from the throat and tastebuds, through the sinuses, and out the vocal cords.  But really, it tasted fine.

      No one trusted me on this point.  Uncertain what to do with the now so-called “ruined” cup of soda, folks tossed in various scrapings, some of Jeff’s milk and a corned beef fat rind.  I turned it over.  It looked like nothing so much as a fetal pig, floating in formaldehyde, waiting for a high school biology student.

      Here piggy, piggy, piggy.

      Realizing I would never succeed in baaaaaad with Jeff as my enemy, I took him into my confidence and we set out to see Gibby.¹  Just as we sat down, someone walked conspicuously by with a big bowl of green ice cream.

      “What’s that?” asked Gibby.

      It was pistachio ice cream.

      “Woh.  Watch my stuff guys.”

      Jeff watched me put vinegar into her Five Alive.

      Gibby came back and had some pistachio ice cream.  We talked.  Conversation was easy because Gibby’s so much fun to talk to (even when you’re not quite on the old up and up).  Finally though, she put down her spoon and had a couple swallows of drink, interrupted by a hideous expression of disgust.

      “Don’t,” she gasped, “don’t ever, ever, ever drink Five Alive after eating pistachio ice cream.  Oh man!  It’s a terrible combination, trust me.”

      My point, of course, is that these cups have to go.  They obviously are conduits to truly demonic urges, and this frightens me.  Granted, I’m no longer at the JSA myself, but don’t be surprised if people start coming back from the BYU semester at Nauvoo wearing much more wool, sunglasses (and other, often leather accessories) and acting just plain baaaaaad.²

 

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Thanks for revisiting Nauvoo with me. I would love to hear your thoughts.