I am a topical genius.
I am a word wizard.
I mount the stump of justice and spew forth mighty isms that profound the weak and uninitiated.
Come gasp at my sayings.
Become dumbfounded by my utterances.
You mule.
You lowbrow.
Do you not see the might of my brain pulsing behind my temples?
Only importance is drafted on my pages.
And if you do not find it thus, you are a simpleton.
I am the Prince of Phrases!
Read on in amazement and shudder in the cloud of my contempt.
For I am a topical genius.
The sun shows brightly outside the L.A. Convention Center, cooking the pavement so that one can feel the dry heat radiating off the concrete surfaces of downtown. The benches and steps are littered with loose papers; the waste left behind from convention attendees who are bustling to and fro, their ID badges hanging around their necks like cowbells. The crowd is an odd mix of cliché computer geeks with short sleeve button down shirts tucked into pants pulled up above their belly buttons, wire frame glasses, un-kept balding hair, and a penchant for sneezing. Amidst the army of geeks are the “new geeks”: Jeans, sneakers, piercings, tattoos, and black t-shirts that let you know in plain white letters how much smarter they are than you.
South across 9th St, a four lane road cluttered in heavy California traffic, a family of seven Mexican immigrants are working a hot grill; catering to an insanely long line. Curious, and more than a little hungry, I position myself at the crosswalk and wait for my light to turn.
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Memo to the File from Furnando
Subject: troubles with line cook Slav Putnik
Date: 9/18/06
This letter is a faithful narrative of all my dealings with Slav Putnik, our little shrimp of a broiler cook. I’ve spoken to him on several occasions about his behavior while on the clock, and he has failed to acquiesce to my requests. He is guilty of repeatedly making the following infractions:
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