So the other day, I was going about other people’s business,
per usual, as any other journalist would, and I stopped at Stillings Dining
Hall to ask a few faculty members why there are never any bananas in the
freaking fruit baskets anymore. To my surprise, they didn’t seem too thrilled
with my purpose; the two goons I talked to appeared almost insulted at my
accusations—like I was harshly critiquing a work of art they had slaved over
for months. It’s fair, I guess, for them to react in such a way, but I didn’t mean
it in a demanding , obnoxious fashion—and I approached the situation with my
best manners, of course. They complied with me and answered my questions to
some extent, but what I thought was the weird part was how I’m pretty sure the
main guy I was talking to was covering his name tag with his arm as if I were
taking in every word he said with some nosy, malicious intent to quote him (I
was). I think he thought that I was being a punk, writing a silly exposé on his
dining hall, so he thought he could just laugh me off. Well, the joke’s on you
pal; I’m still quoting you as anonymous. If you’re going to take yourself so
seriously, trip your mustache and quit wearing that stupid-looking chef hat. And
bring me bananas.
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