There comes a time in every Page Two columnist's life when he has to step up and do the right thing. Granted, I've failed to step up at these crucial times or just flat-out denied being in the wrong in the previous five instances, but now I'm going to finally take responsibility and make wrongs right. Let's just say there have been some... ""unprofessional"" issues between myself and my editor, and I'll be going away for a while. To where, I will not say. I think my letter of resignation says it well enough:
Dear Editor (who shall remain nameless to protect anonymity, but if you really want to know, I'll post her name on my blog in a half hour),
After the events that have transpired between us this semester, I'm afraid I have no choice but to submit my letter of resignation, effective immediately. Don't pretend like you don't know what this is about. Since before I can remember, there has been an incalculable amount of sexual tension between us. I mean, you're a promiscuous pig-tailed redhead who has tight shirts and loose morals. And me... I'm a 400-pound outcast on disability leave who spends his time playing World of Warcraft and pooping in a bedpan because the bathroom is too far away. We're from two different worlds. Also, I like strange pornography in which bald women serve me sushi in the nude.
In the best interest of the newspaper, I feel it would be best if we parted ways. Though, at times I fantasize about just what our lives would be like if we acted upon our urges. I imagine one steamy editing session in which I ""accidentally"" spill my jumbo-sized Slurpee on your low-cut top. You sensually wipe up the stain slowly using one of your red braids, then stick it seductively into your mouth to suck the icy residue off of the hair follicles. Our eyes meet, and then our thighs meet.
Before you know it, we're travelling across the country in a motor home, purchased on a whim after we agree to sell all of our worldly possessions. Our magical mystery love tour takes us to strange and whimsical places across the lower 48 states, stopping at landmarks such as the World's Largest Ant Farm and the Human Garbage Disposal.
Along the way, you give birth to nine kids so we can name them after each planet in the solar system. Then a friendly hobo at a gas station informs us that Pluto is no longer considered a planet, so we leave our youngest child with $10 on the side of the road and tell him to get a job.
After a brief stint in the Peace Corps, you and I take a winter off to live among the penguins in the Antarctic. Then we get permanent tattoos professing our love for each other in areas that have no business being tattooed in the first place. Finally, we realize we've neglected all of those children we made, and we frantically rush back to Reno to find out where social services placed them during our 37-month love bender.
After the numerous court hearings and a vicious custody battle, we set out again on our strange love odyssey. We fashion strange dolls out of the hair we've collected from each other over the past few months, using them to put on adult-only puppet shows told in a made-up language that no one else understands. Soon we take our act to the subways of New York, only to find that the existing hobo and transient puppet shows are managed and performed much better than ours.
After a brief stint in rehab, we return to Madison bitter and penniless, begging The Daily Cardinal to take us back... and also pay for the numerous tickets we've accumulated during our grand love journey. Eventually, our story will be turned into a failed Page Two column that will be roundly rejected by all editors.
But someday, my love, our story will be told!
Do you think this entire story is gross hyperbole and never happened? Complain to someone other than Jon at spike@wisc.edu.
