Illustration by Zane Bhansali, CC ’17
For your enjoyment during the miserable bowels of finals, we hereby present another piece from our beloved mother magazine, The Blue and White. This month’s ATSL, written by senior editor Alexander Pines, CC ’16, and contributor Mabel Taylor, BC ’18, ponders a questions that I’m sure we’ve all wondered about in the past few days: am I clean? Like what you read? Pick up a copy of The Blue and White on campus now!
Affirmative by Alexander Pines
I am a diamond. Flawless. My aura is porcelain perfect. If I were a toilet you could eat your dinner straight out of my bowl. But then I would have your tongue on me and doubtless it is disgusting. You should really get the smell of your breath checked out. It could kill me.
Do you see my teeth? They’re like chiclets. Sometimes I catch myself smiling in the mirror and I want to pull them out and pop them into my mouth and chew and chew because that’s how cute and nice and square they are.
And I only use Fiji water to wash my face. It’s pure, unlike the swill everyone else seems content to douse themselves with (and I imagine they drink it too!). That’s why my pores are invisible. It’s like they’re not even there. Unlike yours, I’m sorry to say.
I had a special copy of the Oxford English Dictionary made so my picture could be printed next to “perfect.” Because I’m funny, too. Extra prints are selling on eBay for up to three thousand dollars. I’m a minor celebrity in Akron, Ohio, okay? This face? It’s basically a collector’s edition.
And they love me on Tinder.
Drugs? Of course not. Well, not dirty drugs. I make sure that the pharmacist filling my Abilify prescription wears gloves and a respiratory mask the entire time. I even make them double-seal the bottle. Because a little bit of dust and…who knows what symptoms a tainted antipsychotic might trigger? Besides, my piss is as clean as a newborn’s, I’ve never failed a test. Of any kind, actually. I joined Mensa when I was…five?
That baggie, the one that you’re looking at, over there? That’s clearly on my roommate’s desk. It’s obvious which side of the room is hers—that fan is from K-Mart, for Christ’s sake. K-Mart. You can even tell from looking at the carpet. I think hers might contain sentient life. That is, if you could see it through the small mountain of polyblend and, God, I think she even wears straight up plastic. Like plastic bags. For when she runs out of panties. I had to start carrying Febreze to escape the toxic cloud of JJ’s leftovers whenever I walk in. It’s her you should be talking to.
Look, I don’t know anything about arson. And even if I did, it would be for the better that all of those horrible tacky things got burned up, okay? The world doesn’t need any more neon pink jeggings, so whoever set those fires was doing society—no, humanity!—a favor. And like, yeah, it’s sad and all that sometimes the fires happened when people were still wearing the abominations but still—hey! Put those handcuffs back on that slimy rubber belt of yours, these are freezing! And filthy, you pig! Do you have any idea what this could do to my nails?
What do you mean fingerprints at the scene matching mine? Fire burns shit up, duh, how could there be fingerprints? Besides, I never leave the house without gloves. My father will have something to say about this, officer. Expect to hear from our lawyer. I’m clean!
Check out the neg after the jump.