As requested be Sammyface. If you haven't already, check out her blog,
though the less said about "saucy-Friday" the better. We'll have none
of that smut here. Mostly 'cos I wouldn't be very good at it.
Ahem.
Unless I'm very much mistaken, I'm back to doing requests again. And while I can't promise that I'll be prompt, or indeed,
particularily artistic, I can promise that I might do your request. Possibly.
'Tis "franic-rush-to-apply-to-uni" month at sixth form, so its time to
get my metaphorical house in order. Looks like I'm gonna do a degree in
Biochemistry, if you're interested. Why? Apart from frivolities like it
being something I'm good at, and a desirable degree, it is (far more
importantly) very impressive sounding...
Picture, if you will, a lavish dinner
party. Golden drapes adorn a majestic hall, immaculate waiters glide to
and fro, champange evporvessing in crystal flutes being handed out like
empty-promises at a polictical rally. Elegant and beautiful women
saunter around in dresses that probably cost more to buy than your
average third-world country spends on arms, before daintily taking
their places among stuanch and dashing gentlemen at the dinner table.
You note the high incidence of handlebar mustaches -this is a very
high-soceity shin-dig indeed, if it was any more high-society; the
guests would be on stilts. The bandinage is flowing freely, before the
conversation turns to talk of university:
Earl of Withersthorpe: "So my lad [
Or lass, we're all about equal opportunities here], what stimulating subject had you up to your garters in books, in your student days?"
You break eye-contact, pausing to mop
your brow. Fear presses down on your shoulders, you make a prayer to
your respective god(s), you've been dreading this moment all evening.
You: "I, err, majored in *cough*
sociology..."
You realise your mistake, eyes bulge,
handlebar mustaches droop, the Earl of Withersthorpe's monacle pummets
from his eye, he stops drinking the fine champange -his fingers no
longer grip the glass. His half-filled jaw involuentaily expels the
remaining liquid in abject disgust. You feel like a puppy that's just
soiled the persian rug. The Earl pushes himself to his feet, his lip
quivering...
Earl of Witherthorpe: "Get out of my house! Never darken my door my door again with your cretinous ways! OUT! Before I release the hounds!"
And so you run. Never to return, you
live your life alone, eating nuts and berries on a craggy island off
the coast of Ireland. You spend your life wondering how it could have
been so different...
Earl of Withersthorpe: "So my lad [
Or lass, if you're still reading], what stimulating subject had you up to your garters in books, in your student days?"
You smile, this has been the ace up
your sleeve all evening. You may have wooed countless willing suitors
with tales of your bravery and compassion during this party, but it is
on your next choice words that your future in circles such as these
will depend.
You: "Well, my good sir, I took a three year course in Biochemisty. And most enlightening it was too, many thanks for your inquiry."
Earl of Witherthorpe: "Don't mention it my boy, it sounds very impressive. Have another Ferro Roche..."
I think I have proved my point. That or I've just revealled that I'm an
elitist bastard. I apoligise to an socialiogy students, I'm glad you
took the time out of your employment at McDonalds to read this.
No, seriously, I'm sorry.
-Evil
