Disclaimer: Any resemblance to any other piece of fiction is purely intentional. But there's only one character in here that belongs to someone else, and I don't even mention his name. Please don't sue me.
"Procrastination"
Ethel Pricilla Cowminder Binns was banging her head on the wall. It wasn't really much fun, but it was decidedly more enjoyable than what she would have been doing otherwise, which was writing a paper on the history of whelks in post-Stalinist Russia. Ethel wasn't really sure if there had been any whelks in post-Stalinist Russia, but that topic was the one that she had submitted to Dr. Friedeggen in a moment of panic on that day a month ago when reminded that she ought to have been halfway done her thesis, or at least to have chosen a topic. Ethel had informed her professor with a superior smile (and, she now realized, with supreme stupidity), that she was, indeed, nearly finished, and had told him that her topic was the one over which she was now banging her head against the wall. For, instead of immediately rushing out to do extensive research, Ethel had done what any warm-blooded American college student would have done. She spent a month alternately getting stinking drunk and having in-depth philosophical discussions about the nature of morality in modern society with her equally drunken and procrastinating fellow-students. The day before her paper was due, she sat down in front of her typewriter, intending to make up something brilliant about whelks. This was before she realized that she wasn't even sure what a whelk was, and that she had ten hours to fill twice as many pages with an in depth analysis of something she wasn't even sure had ever existed. She briefly toyed with the idea of typing "I know absolutely nothing about whelks" on a sheet of paper and stapling it to nineteen blank sheets, but she decided against this strategy and instead resorted to banging her head on the wall.
Ethel had been banging her head against the wall for thirty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds when she saw a flash of light outside her open window. She ceased her self-inflicted battery to lean outside and see what was happening. What she saw astounded her. A large silver craft was lowering to the ground in front of her home, gracefully, elegantly. It touched the ground and settled gently on beautiful silver legs. Ethel was speechless. Suddenly, a door opened in the side of the craft and a ramp extended to the ground. A figure appeared at the door. He was tall and wore exquisite shining robes. He also, oddly enough, carried a clipboard. The figure stood in front of the building and glanced up to where Ethel was staring in awe from the window. He called up to her. "Ethel Binns? Ethel Pricilla Cowminder Binns?"
Ethel was astounded. She managed to stutter out a somewhat garbled version of "Yes."
The alien nodded. "Ethel Pricilla Cowminder Binns, you are a drunken, sniveling piece of lark's vomit. You ought to be institutionalized." With that, he made a small tick on the clipboard, turned and walked smartly up the ramp. The spaceship was gone before Ethel was again able to move.
Instead of writing her paper, she followed the alien's advice and had herself institutionalized. Everyone was very kind to her and didn't mind when she told them that she'd been insulted by a beautiful alien. She also gained some very interesting new insights about morality in modern society from the other inmates. About whelks, too. And there were plenty of lovely walls against which she could bang her head.
They were even cushioned.
"Procrastination"
Ethel Pricilla Cowminder Binns was banging her head on the wall. It wasn't really much fun, but it was decidedly more enjoyable than what she would have been doing otherwise, which was writing a paper on the history of whelks in post-Stalinist Russia. Ethel wasn't really sure if there had been any whelks in post-Stalinist Russia, but that topic was the one that she had submitted to Dr. Friedeggen in a moment of panic on that day a month ago when reminded that she ought to have been halfway done her thesis, or at least to have chosen a topic. Ethel had informed her professor with a superior smile (and, she now realized, with supreme stupidity), that she was, indeed, nearly finished, and had told him that her topic was the one over which she was now banging her head against the wall. For, instead of immediately rushing out to do extensive research, Ethel had done what any warm-blooded American college student would have done. She spent a month alternately getting stinking drunk and having in-depth philosophical discussions about the nature of morality in modern society with her equally drunken and procrastinating fellow-students. The day before her paper was due, she sat down in front of her typewriter, intending to make up something brilliant about whelks. This was before she realized that she wasn't even sure what a whelk was, and that she had ten hours to fill twice as many pages with an in depth analysis of something she wasn't even sure had ever existed. She briefly toyed with the idea of typing "I know absolutely nothing about whelks" on a sheet of paper and stapling it to nineteen blank sheets, but she decided against this strategy and instead resorted to banging her head on the wall.
Ethel had been banging her head against the wall for thirty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds when she saw a flash of light outside her open window. She ceased her self-inflicted battery to lean outside and see what was happening. What she saw astounded her. A large silver craft was lowering to the ground in front of her home, gracefully, elegantly. It touched the ground and settled gently on beautiful silver legs. Ethel was speechless. Suddenly, a door opened in the side of the craft and a ramp extended to the ground. A figure appeared at the door. He was tall and wore exquisite shining robes. He also, oddly enough, carried a clipboard. The figure stood in front of the building and glanced up to where Ethel was staring in awe from the window. He called up to her. "Ethel Binns? Ethel Pricilla Cowminder Binns?"
Ethel was astounded. She managed to stutter out a somewhat garbled version of "Yes."
The alien nodded. "Ethel Pricilla Cowminder Binns, you are a drunken, sniveling piece of lark's vomit. You ought to be institutionalized." With that, he made a small tick on the clipboard, turned and walked smartly up the ramp. The spaceship was gone before Ethel was again able to move.
Instead of writing her paper, she followed the alien's advice and had herself institutionalized. Everyone was very kind to her and didn't mind when she told them that she'd been insulted by a beautiful alien. She also gained some very interesting new insights about morality in modern society from the other inmates. About whelks, too. And there were plenty of lovely walls against which she could bang her head.
They were even cushioned.
