By John Sheehan '08
Web Editor

It’s a question I get asked a lot. From frustrated neat-freak roommates who think cleaning a bathroom on a monthly basis is a necessity as opposed to OCD-inspired lunacy to workaholic managing partners trying to guilt trip me for not doing work they were too lazy to do. Most recently this insult poorly disguised as a question was put to me by the editorial board of this fine ABA award-winning paper.

“I’m the web editor,” I meekly replied, “I’m on the editorial board.”

Oh, how they laughed. Hearty guffaws, derisive chuckles, meaty missives of mischief all of them. Still cackling with a hateful haughtiness, they shoved the bylaws under my still moist eyes. It was all true; my position was a sham, neither recognized nor respected.

“Listen buddy, we’re sick of your Sheehanigans, this ‘web editor’ bullshit isn’t gonna cut it anymore. You better start carrying your weight around here.”

“But what do you want me to do?” I asked these newly revealed Fagins.

“We want columns. And they better make us laugh. Laugh harder than the rep from Skadden when he saw your transcript.” The tears started to flow again (I’m an extremely sensitive man. I mean that literally. I can read the newspaper just by running my hands over the print and I’ve been known to smell shame.) I ran out of the newsroom that day vowing to never return again.

But, see, the thing is, they give us free pizza. Like, every single Wednesday. Try as I might, I realized that the scorn and indignity, the new additional labor requested of me, the sweet satisfaction of standing up for my moral convictions was not worth more than the five to ten dollars I saved every Wednesday. Plus, I liked telling people things like, “Hey, I’m sorry, I’d love to keep talking, but I have a pizza party to go to.” It just makes you sound GQ.

My mission was clear: I would churn out my 600-700 words as quickly as possible and hope that perhaps the whole thing would blow over. I brewed a nice cup of hot chocolate and curled up in the tire swing in my backyard. (Don’t get the wrong impression. It’s just a normal old tire swing. Unlike the spoiled youth of today, I don’t need those fancy spinner rims to have a nice time.)

As the leaves on the trees changed by degrees and fell to the ground in a fluttery breeze, my thoughts floated likewise. Thoughts like ‘Holy S---! Did you see that last line? I’m like motherf---in Wordsworth on crack laced with uncut genius.” But also, because I am sensitive, more reflective thoughts about important crap came to me. Unfortunately most of those thoughts were so sensitive and frighteningly insightful that I felt they would be put to better use in another column. (See all of Archie's previous columns. He stole all of his thoughts from me.)

I mused on a recent dream I had wherein I stabbed and then beat John Mayer senseless when he stole my glass of milk which I had wanted to drink with a freshly made PB&J. Dreams are truly windows into our souls. I also thought about dog. Not owning my own dog or a particular dog but just dog in the abstract. And not multiple dogs, just the abstract essence of the singular dog. (In addition to being sensitive, I’m also deep. How deep? You ever see The Abyss, that movie about really deep holes in the deep sea? Well I appreciated that movie on a level your deepest friend would consider only speculatively possible. Once a friend called me Johnny Deep, but I quickly dismissed it. Puns are not deep.)

The sounds of a squirrel scuttling through a nearby tree awakened me from my reflective reverie. And good thing. It was past two in the morning. And I was fully naked. And on top of your mom. (I’m kidding, I don’t even think of your mom like that.) My man purse dangling in the crisp September air, I made my way back into my apartment. I quickly jotted down these slight introductory remarks as mere preface for what would be my first column of a new school year. Unfortunately, I ran out of room. But next time, brace yourself for my first entrée, my initial enterprise, my first interpenetration (get your mind out of the gutter.)

In the meantime, I have a pizza party to attend.

Email: jss9b@virginia.edu