The "flesh-eating cart from Hell" and other tales

ABSURDITY HAPPENS, boy. There I was, reading Don Wagner’s ultra-peevish letter to the editor in the Lariat, when a maintenance worker walked up to me, complaining that the college has run out of paper towels for the restrooms. “How can that be?” I asked. It can be all right, he said.

“Didn’t Wayne know he’d run out?”

“Well, we told ‘em. But I guess he didn’t order enough.”

He told me to check out the restrooms, so I headed to SSC and I managed to get a picture inside the ladies’ restroom over there.

It looked like a bomb had hit it.

How does it work with women anyway? Is it like: “Hey, there’s no paper towels! So, naturally, we’ve gotta trash this dump!”

Now, I’m the first to admit that men are dirt compared to women, but that said, men don’t trash restrooms just because the towels ran out, not in my experience.

Anyway, Wayne and the boys are now scrambling to get some paper towels. Years ago, before Wayne, we once ran low on TP, so the women bitterly complained while the men just looked bewildered. In response, the head of maintenance sent over about 20 rolls: one per faculty member. “Here,” said a note.

Meanwhile, the offices in my part of A200 are freezing cold. I think I spotted an icicle hangin’ from Jeanne’s nose yesterday. It was like we were at Frostbite Falls in the Yukon, waiting for the Winter stage.


The maintenance guy told me about the Flesh-Eating Cart From Hell, too. He had first told me about this legendary vehicle months ago. He kept going on and on about the danger and the hazard. “I don’t get it,” I said. “How can a goddam golf cart pose any danger?”

“All the edges are ragged, and that causes injuries,” he said. “One guy already hurt his knee. Pretty soon, somebody’s gonna be out on workman’s comp!”

Today, I went out to take a look at the thing. It looked pretty ragged all right. Workers had stuck some kind of foam thingy next to the steering column to protect their legs. All the edges of the cart were missing some kind of protective plastic or vinyl, and so it was like a Russian jet liner. The windshield was some cheap clear plastic secured with duct tape. It was strictly Third World, man.

I looked up and the maintenance guy was shaking his head: “It’s just a matter of time,” he said.

He explained that Wayne had been told about this atrocity, like, a year ago, but still nothing has been done. We stared at the thing. “It’s just a matter of time,” he said again, shaking his head gravely.

Well, I guess so.

I was going to tell you about something significant that happened today, but now I’ve forgotten what it was. Something about a blinding light maybe? No, that can't be it.

Anyway, I ended up staying late, and I drove home in the dark, onto the toll road, past the friendly toll lady, down El Toro Road, up to my little place against the canyon wall. I was greeted by one pissed off cat.

“What is your problem, dude! I’ve been alone here all day!” she yammered, even before I entered. I nearly laughed.

Yeah, but she got happy real quick. I gave her her blob of cat food and she went at it like a hopped up weasel. Almost immediately, she puked on my foot, leaving a big fibrous log there. It felt like a Quarter-pounder.

But it was OK. Really. —CW