Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Why Steven Phillips No Longer Works for the Campus Newspaper

We asked junior Tom Levinstein to predict who will be in this year’s Super Bowl. “Probably whoever wins the most games,” he said. Then we asked for an early prediction on the NCAA men’s basketball championship. He spat on the ground and said, “Probably whichever team does the best in the tournament and then scores the most points in the championship.” We began to feel agitated with Tom’s answers but asked for one last prediction. Which country’s team has the best shot at the World Cup? “Whoever gets the most goals, you dipshits,” he said. At that point we were offended at the way Tom had treated us. He was not taking these questions seriously enough. We threw Tom into our van and put a bag over his head. Mike hit Tom in the stomach with a crowbar to, you know, teach him a lesson on respect. We figured he was a changed man after our big show, so we asked him, “Tom, where are we supposed to drop you off?”
“Probably wherever I live, geniuses.”
We detected more than a little sarcasm when he called us geniuses since he had shown such disrespect before. I gave Tom a wedgie and then asked, “Are you done with the salty answers, Tom?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll probably be done with them when I stop saying them, you moron.”
I was absolutely fuming at this point. This young man was so sarcastic that it made me want to make him stand behind a horse and then have that horse kick him right in his face. So Craig drove the van to Briarland Farms and we got in position. I asked one last question, to give Tom a chance to redeem himself. I said, “Tom, who do you predict will win this showdown, you or the horse?”
“Uhh,” said Tom, “how is this showdown scored?”
“Whoever kicks the other one in the face wins.”
“Well in that case…”
He paused, making me think that maybe he was going to make a legitimate prediction and allow us to stop all of this violence. He continued, “I bet the winner is going to be whoever kicks the other one in the face, Einstein.”
I became so agitated in one instant that every muscle in my body tensed as tight as possible and many of my veins and arteries burst. I felt rivers of blood course through the inside of my body, eventually pooling in my feet.
I gave the horse, Maurizio, a tasty carrot. That was the signal. He delivered a sturdy kick to Tom’s face. I felt weak. I looked at Tom, who was laying on the ground, looking for his teeth.
“What now?” I said, my voice soft. I could barely stand and it was difficult to breathe. “What now, Tom? Do we continue this madness? I will be dead soon. Look at what your sarcasm has cost us! When will this end?”
“Uhh…probably when either you die or I stop making these comments, Poindexter.”
I felt death approaching and I stifled my anger. “Tom,” I said. “Tom, look at me. As soon as I die, Tom. As soon as I leave this earth, I am going to start training. I am going to go straight to Hell’s Gymnasium and I am going to train for decades. All day, every day, getting bigger and stronger, waiting for the moment you appear and I can destroy you. I will rip you to pieces, Tom.”
“My prediction for that is, uh, no you won’t.”
Was that a legitimate answer? He finally did it. Just as my final breath wheezed from my collapsed lungs. Tom Levinstein is a jerk.

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