In the Nov. 4, 2016 issue of the Bison, I told you the story of a very unfortunate bet I made with my friend Zach. Let me recap the wager so you may appropriately enjoy my chagrin over what you are about to read.
Convinced that Clinton would clinch the presidency, I told Zach that if Hillary won, he should glue a Shipley’s glazed doughnut to his face and run across the Front Lawn for an hour. Naturally, for the sake of good sportsmanship, I told him to name his price in the event of a Trump upset.
He thought hard, then: “I want you to put the word ‘CAT’ in your column 50 times.”
I believe I used the words, “Why not?” to seal the deal, closing myself into what I would soon realize for what it was — a feline coffin of a most sturdy construction. Not only that, I hate cats. Unlike Victoria in “How I Met Your Mother,” I love the musical, hate the animal. Cats are pretentious and lazy, and you know how it’s hard to get along with those who are mirror images of yourself? It’s that kind of dilemma.
In the column to follow Trump’s November triumph, I did manage to include a total of six CAT references, but I considered that a weak start to the arduous payback on my ill-conceived hope of seeing Zach suffer a glazed humiliation. You can’t imagine the depth of my initial disappointment. It was supposed to be such a rewarding outcome. The photographs and aesthetically pleasing Snapchat videos were going to be an exquisite addition to my personal media portfolio. I thought I had a win in the bag. I “flew the W” with haste, only to find myself in a hole reminiscent of “Dewey Defeats Truman” in 1948.
Now, our society is breaking, and I have a debt on my conscious. But I am a man of my word. With only several columns left in my chiefship, I need to alleviate this guilt.
It was a messy election — a mudslinging tragicomedy, rampant with ill-formulated attacks, irreversible agendas and broken promises. This is where we are. This is where our country finds itself at the eleventh hour.
As for me, well, I refuse to be just another broken promise.
To my three religious readers (this does not include my mom), I apologize for what you are about to endure. I will make it up to you next week with a peaceful, guiltless return to my usual column-writing style, recently described as: “folksy stories, sometimes with a point.”
For now, Zach Slomers, enjoy your victory. Enjoy the knowledge of the sleepless nights you solicited as I searched for a loophole, a wormhole, anything to get me out of this grimalkin agreement.
You win, my friend. I should have gotten this over with a long time ago …
CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT CAT
