Qrazy

Apparently, the only thing the starving children in Niger need to be happy is a pony.

I got this bit of wisdom from a bumper sticker that reads, “Happiness is owning a quarterhorse.” Mind you, the person paid to pen this missive probably did not intend to imply that quarterhorse husbandry is exclusively the key to happiness, but being the bitch that I am, I went down the rant path anyway.

If you are a quarterhorse fancier, be ye not afraid. This rant path merely started at the sticker, and never involved horses a’tall. In fact, this rant was quite focused on one thing, or rather, one person – the dumb motherfucker in my Contemporary Philosophy class in college who tried to pity party an “A” out of the prof using his plight with Subway sandwich addiction.

Way, waaaay back, in the year of our Lord nineteen and ninety-four, lived a Contemporary Philosophy class in its first semester. I was one of the students trapped in its torrid intestines, just past the drop/add deadline, and praying to be shit out alive. This course was of such bad temperament due to its leader, a chronically drunk, aging hippy who was constantly pissed at us for “not really getting it.”

We meet our protagonist after a particularly tough test. I had the highest grade in the class with a whopping 32 out of 100. Pissed-off-drunk-hippy graded on a curve, so people did actually pass, but the grading scheme left everyone feeling like failures. He was so disappointed by how much we failed this test that he insisted on having a one on one with each student to see if we were really cut out for Philosophy. As I was waiting outside his lair for my interview, I got to hear one of the most pathetic spewings of horseshit I have ever witnessed.

I don’t remember the dumb motherfucker’s name, but I remember his schpiel almost word for word. This clean faced, preppy ass, upper class, over-privileged schlub tried to convince a hard-core alcoholic, perpetual bachelor, intellectual elitest, scruffy, raging hippy that they were “more alike than you think. I have an addiction, too. Subway.” Mr. Schlub said the previous with such gravity, I almost peed my pants. He went on to regail the prof with tales of his cravings and how he had to hide the receipts from his parents. He had even started bribing friends to buy the goods for him so he wouldn’t get caught. “It’s all I think about. It drives me mad!” This is why he felt he was meant for Philosophy. The rigors of Subway addiction had made him unafraid to contemplate the deeper aspects of humanity.

At this, I snorted. Loudly. The prof quickly ended the interview, and the addict slithered away into the hoary netherworld that I am sure Subway addiction must lead to. I don’t even remember how my interview went, nor do I care. I think he could have flunked me that day, and I would have deemed it worthy for a story like that. Someday, when the wars on DRUGS and TERROR are over, the nation will loose the dogs of vengeance upon Subway, and only then, will that dumb motherfucker, be truly free.