Partly Cloudy, 64°
Every morning as I sit down in some stifling classroom without having so much as broken a sweat on the journey thereto, I nearly convulse over the banality of my daily travels. With little more than a satchel of texts, the clothes on my back, and a freshly sharpened Puma P116396 Stainless Steel Stag Handle Bowie Knife, I sleepily set out for class knowing full-well how unlikely it is that I will have to fell anywhere between fifty and seventy-five furiously whooping savages, gargle luxuriously with a thick mouthful of crimson, and vomit a great arc into the mouths of their helplessly restrained progeny. No, I have little more to fear on my morning walk than some bewitching young temptress looking piercingly into my eyes and somehow ascertaining the depravity of the pornography to which I have just finished masturbating.
Arriving at this wretched University, I was appalled at the ease with which its students navigated the regrettably well-charted campus. Apparently, I grossly misunderstood the insufferable bucktooth of a valedictorian at my high school - this frivolous cake walk is no "new frontier." His irresponsible tortured metaphors have left me bitter and emasculated - uncountable are the nights I've collapsed in the streets, armed to the tooth and clothed in a buckskin singlet, gasping for the worthy challenge of the red-man.
To be fair, in this age the fight would be an unfair one. I have been training since I gained consciousness, and truly the half-witted Brave would stand little chance. While I distracted him with highly polished ball-bearings and the promise of succulent buffalo flesh, I would wrench away his soul with my photo camera. I would then broker a fur trade with his Squaw, only to deftly keep both the pelt and the beads! "How, how, how," she would sob, simultaneously coming to terms with the depth of my business savvy and the death of her husband.
There seems no outlet for my unquenchable blood-lust. I find some solace in the slaying of the many detestable homeless that befoul our city. I have begun to wrest a language of their infernal shouts and grotesque pantomime - highly uneducated, it appears all the lot of them has to say is: "I wish to be scalped. Please, take my life as a symbol of your people's dominance in this region."
Where is the sport, though, when there is no cohesive culture to eradicate? No organized offensive? No war-paint, headdresses, or Qur'ans?
Until our administration realizes how our community grows atrophied without the unrelenting threat of brutal packs of flesh-eating savages slicing away our cranial skin on the way to class, I'll be waiting. Waiting hungrily, crouched in the prairie grass at the George Street Cutoff, for some massacre, for that wagon to finally roll in with a gaggle of hostile adversaries.
How about it, Brown?
