Partly Cloudy, 64°
Dexterously sliding into a prime front-row seat in his Advanced Computational Theory class last Wednesday morning, obnoxiously ambidextrous student Scott Gable '10 prepared to take copious notes.
To ensure everyone's acute awareness of his genetic mutation, Gable first put a notebook on the right side of his desk to take normal notes with his dominant hand, then put another notebook on the left side of his desk to count, using his other hand, how many esoteric words he could use within the lecture hour.
Midway through the lecture, Professor Archibald Mufner asked for an interpretation of the graph he had projected onto the screen. Two hands immediately flew into the air as soon as the implied question mark passed through Mufner's lips.
"I view this diagram as more metaphysical and conceptual than representational, a malleable postulate detailing the evolutionary dénouement of the malapropism," said Gable loudly, raising first one eyebrow, then the other, attempting to catch the attention of an aesthetically pleasing female peer sitting as far away from him as humanly possible. Scribbling his phone number onto a sheet of paper with his right hand, he tossed the scrap deftly into her lap with his left, and proceeded to wink at her with both eyes.
As soon as the bell tolled the end of class, Gable proceeded to pack up his things loudly, zipping and crinkling paper and leaning obviously in all directions so as to emphasize the fact that he had been utilizing a 360-degree note-taking field on a special new ambidextrous desk designed just for him.
Yet the minute Gable prepared to rise spryly from his workspace, disaster struck. He found that in his quest to provide himself with as much surface area as possible, he had inadvertently prevented his own deskly exit. The space normally allotted to sliding in and out of desks was cruelly occupied by the extra bit of wood Gable required to effectively demonstrate his talent, which he realized then was both a blessing and a curse. Panic flooded both hemispheres of his brain as he flicked his head this way and that at increasingly alarming angles. Shooting a flare gun (equally precisely with both hands) that he kept in his L.L. Bean backpack specifically for emergencies of this nature, Gable awaited a potential rescuer-perhaps that hot girl in the corner.
Sadly, and probably because his esoteric word count this lecture was much higher than usual, classmates conveniently avoided his frantic gaze and pretended not to notice the painful reverberations in their ears and the smoke stinging their eyes. Professor Mufner shuffled out of the classroom minutes later, intently cleaning his classes.
Completely abandoned and woebegone, Gable was forced to call upon the Brown Department of Public Safety on his ambidextrous phone. DPS reported that while they are indeed on the case, they are kind of taking a break right now. However, Gable's rescue is "definitely going to be handled within a day or two, probably," DPS chief Ralph LaRossa reported.
