President Bump is on the phone. he is sweating profusely and his greased palms are sliding off the receiver and the bannister of the Christmas scene propped up by an assistant who recently got her card back.
Bump: oh.....oh Gina......Gina De Vecchio.....you are too much for me......of all the weather girls, you had to moisture-storm into mine..............i can't take you.............your body comes through in technicolor and it's too fat to fit the screen. your butt is an endless explosion of ball, it expands out into the unknown jiggle universe and i can only gaze at its lines. thank merry christmas the unknown does not necessarily equate to the unseen. your wobbly woobly woozy Southern tits are bigger than all of our faces put together, come on in, everybody, there's room for everyone's noses! here, keep doing the weather while i simulcast on my tv, let me just slide on my watch, wave in the studio if you can hear my voice. Gina..................oh Gina....................GINA!!!
Martin Lawrence: not cool, man.
Melania, who is still a robot: sir, no Gina. these are the kids you call to tell them Santa's route.
Bump: aw shit. bye kiddies, got to keep the line open for real emergencies for fat men.
Mooch: sir, you have a call from Binomo. not sure if it's important.
Bump: saved by the Polish bell, which rings for eternity. hello?
Binomo: you know Binomo?
Bump: sure. it's binary.
Binomo: ...........oh...............was not expecting that. thought you would go for bitcoin first. bite on bitcoin................um.................we give you present for being so great.
Bump: you Polish Jews are lagging. the Jewish Jews already gave me a train. i've always wanted to be named after a train, that seems perfect for me, huh. my name will resound in the halls of all the brown buildings.
i drift. i daze. i doze. at this moment i am thinking of fucking Auverin. a daydream slightly hardened by sex, making the love less airy. and it is at this moment that Auverin in her infinite wisdom sees fit to burst my bubble.
Auverin: i know we go to the peace-and-love university, but i was reading in that paper under your boot that campus crime is on the rise. rapes are increasing like a motherfucker. our boys are smart so they feel entitled. our girls aren't safe. tons and tons of men. this is movement time. this is the time for you to move. me, too, i've had a few close calls.
i open one eye. i'm tempted to say it's cos she's hot but thankfully my mouth is still full of drool.
Auverin: i know, it's hard to think such atrocities are committed on our beloved grounds. but they are, in secret, in late-night bedrooms and smoothie stalls and study sessions. no sexual assault should ever be ignored, sex is a sacred act, not a play.
i don't know what to say. i am not versed in these matters. i lie back and stare at the dancing flames of the fireplace. you know i don't remember if the lounge actually had a fireplace. but it would be perfect it there was one, wouldn't it? a brick fireplace with a running fire framing the rest of the stacks of bright-red hardcover books like concrete slabs in this watery Alice in Wonderland setting.
Auverin: my former roommate, let's call him Vivian, was a transgender. quite vulnerable to the entitlement of her peers. she would harass me constantly about tips i had on how to be a girl. i had none, never thought about it. she thought being a girl meant being a slut. she had short hair and didn't look like a girl at all. on Diversity Night at the frat, she went upstairs, never go upstairs, and before she knew it she was in the middle of their gigantic Arab rug which was bigger than the four corners of the room, having a frat train run through her. or over her in her case. that's not the sickest part. a few days later she got the surgery. she was now Vivian the man. he was spreadeagle on the gurney, i missed the first gurney, and i held his hand as they loaded him in the ambulance. he was desperate to know if i had any tips on being a guy. i had none, never thought about it. he was intimating that he might find himself in that very same dorm situation on the other side if he ever wanted to fit in. he equated. he thought all boys were gang-rapists.
me: twisted! not him. i mean her. society in general. what happened to culture? what breeds such thinking? we need to get back to books. books are funner than sex. we need to get back to science-based. and evidence-based. no more feelings. nerds, virgins, that's what college is for.
Auverin: i feel bad to this day. sometimes it's just not worth being single.
me: sucks for your ex.
Anderson Cooper raps his knuckles and bites his toenails. he knows he has to make the call but he's delaying his tactic. his socks are full of holes.
Anderson: okay, Andy, let's go. Ande and Andy, the New Year's Twins.
at the Ball Drop, Andy Cohen is there chipper as ever in his powder-blue suit and bowtie and there's Anderson in the matching suit but Amderson is dour and just not feeling it.
Anderson: America will not be able to take us. two gay men all at once, it's too much. New Year's is already gay enough with the horns and streamers and hats and stupid glasses and shit. and the pound of confetti.
Andy: well thank you very much Debbie "Hugh-Downs" Downer.
Anderson: sorry, not in a celebratory mood.
Andy: y'know i usually spend New Year's with my wives. our trivia is naked.
Anderson: i KNEW you were tv-gay only!
Mooch: Mr. Anderson, you have a call.
Anderson starts to cry and fans his face with his fingers.
Kathy Griffin: Coop? is that you?
Andy Cohen scowls. but the three of them are friends.
Anderson: omg yes, baby! you're live on the air so watch the language. there is....so much i want to say to you. so much was left unsaid after your scalp.
Kathy: it's just a phone call. you can't see me. are you crying? i can't tell over the phone if you're crying or that's just your normal voice.
at some point we exchanged numbers. but it was probably just our stupid dorm numbers. not the phone to our real houses, where one of us would call home. that all but assured i'd never use that slip of paper, never push those buttons. i mean what would i say? our classes were over.
me: is there any reason to call up a fast-food joint? what would i say? i mean the menu, the FDA allowances ingredient percentages, the hours, the location, are all online.
Auverin: maybe to see how that lonely kid with the pimples getting your fries is doing. check up. everyone has a day. here's your protein.
Auverin hands me a half-baked microwaved half of a hardboiled egg she was keeping hidden under her brown sandwich wrap. that yellow center looks good enough to eat, i am drawn to it. as i'm about to suck out that yolk hard as hardtack snow, the yolk half-circle explodes in my face, sending bits of food particles everywhere, dotting the landscape of the book stacks with yellow dots. to this day i have a dull ache lining the roof of my mouth. it hurts to speak.
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