SAM IS DEAD
I have been summoned back by the outcries from the Golden Words office. My dim spirit lifted my heavy foot steps; one step at a time I arrived at Golden Words. What awaited for me was a horror I have never dreamt of witnessing: Sam Codrington is dead!
No, not in the way that Overheard is dead. Sam is actually dead; as dead as the two squirrels on Albert street. Silent. Sideways. Half-black.
I was ordered the holy and honourable task of writing this obituary for Sam. Sam was a great man. From the moment I’ve known him, I knew that he would be a great Golden Words editor, if only he could live for long….
NO I’M NOT
Woah, that got a little racial up there. Sam Codrington here, incoming editor ( and very much still alive) and I’d like to interrupt this premature obituary to let the world know I overslept. I know. I’m such a jackass. I feel stupid. Apparently, this is has been a curse amongst editors since time immemorial that one generally is timely and professional and the other one is more like diarrhea, in that their shit is not together. Last year it was Joe, before him it was Matt, before him it was Lauren, before her it was Dutka, and so on and so forth in an unbroken line stretching back to 1967. And it was my resolution as editor to break this curse and be punctual and professional. All bets in Clark were on me to be the tardy one, but I fought against the odds and showed up to my first issue of the paper on time.
That whole shindig lasted about as along as a fart in a wind tunnel and I showed up late today.
So like a graduate student at Western rather than failure being a one time thing, I’m going to make it my professional mandate. From now on I will attend to my responsibilities exclusively an hour and a half late, dressed in an attire that is one level more informal than called for. Invite me to a black tie event at 7:00, I’ll come at 8:30, noticeably drunk and wearing a bahamas shirt. If I have a fifteen minute job interview at nine in the morning and I’ll arrive at noon in a puke-stained t-shirt wearing sunglasses I will refuse to take off while being escorted out by security. If a pretty girl with liberal views on premarital sex texts me a winky face followed by a question mark at two in the morning, I’ll be there at 8:30 the next morning with her father in tow, carrying Tylenol, a glass of water, and a Bible.
Long have people fought against the curse of the Lazy Ed, setting alarms, writing futile post-it notes in an effort to escape the curse. But not me. I’m embracing it. Tardiness will be the standard I live and die behind, several hours behind. It has become the principle I base all my actions around several hours later. From here on in when I come, I will come far later then expected. …Ladies?