I asked Boyce at his son’s party if he’d check online about how the Ragin’ Emus were doing in the Old Dominion Athletic Conference Women’s Basketball Tournament. He just stared at me and said, “Am I completely wasted right now because all your words sound really funny.” It seems he’d forgotten about our loyalty to the Hollins University Ragin’ Emus, though he was reminded when I told him it was an all-girls school. Sammy suggested that I recap a couple of the different things I’ve discussed on this blog. It’s a good idea, since to be completely fair I don’t remember much either. Last week Sammy told me he’d ordered an anti-United Nations periodical for Dr. Keegman’s office and I thought I was having a stroke because nothing Sammy said made sense. Update away, then!
Sammy continues to order free things for Dr. Keegman’s office. He can no longer personally deliver expired Arby’s products because the office secretary told him if he ever came back she’d call the police. Sammy had an industrial-size tub of horsey sauce and tried to explain to her that if she called the police they might ask why the good doctor was ordering so much. “Or maybe you’re the one who needs the horsey sauce?” Then she picked up the phone so Sammy left. In the parking lot he heaved the tub on top of the roof. Whenever we drive by the office he gets really excited because it’s still stuck in one of the gutters. “That’s about three pounds of expired horsey sauce!” he shouts. He asked me if it would be possible for a bird to pierce through the plastic tub to get to the sauce. I told him a bird would have no reason to do that. "Under no conditions?" Sammy asked. I told him if the bird was mentally deranged and his original nest had been lined with horsey sauce packets it's possible, though no more possible than the psychotic bird simply ramming itself into a wall. "Maybe a squirrel, then," Sammy said.
In regards to the Hollins University Ragin’ Emus: I have come to find out that the comically bad Emus were not even invited to their conference’s women’s basketball tournament. This is what a 1-19 conference record will do for you. The girls are undoubtedly pessimistic about their chances to win athletic events when the mascot meant to rouse the crowd is the eternal abyss of non-existence. We must get the word out that they have a mascot. It’s an emu, and it’s ragin’.
In other news, Rex Tugwell came to work with his fourteen year old son yesterday. He said, “Typhus, you’ve met my son.” So I shook hands with the kid, but I couldn’t remember his name so I said, “Good to see you again, Trigger.” Later Rex asked if I didn’t even know his son’s name. I said of course not: “I don’t even know your wife’s name, and she’s the one who made him.” I thought of Rachel when I said that because she always said things like that. She’d smile and touch my arm after she said them, so I reached out to touch Rex’s arm, too. He just swatted it away and said, “It’s Rex, too. We’re all named Rexford. Maybe if he was a bird, right Virus?” Maybe if he was a bird, indeed. If he was capable of flight and complex migratory patterns I might bother to remember his name. Though even if Rex's son could fly, I'd probably always hope he flies into a windmill or something. He'll always be a Tugwell.
