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Three non-tenured individuals sat side by side in Room C.
The first, Ned, turned to the one on his left, Cot.
"Honton Torton will when friend turn?"
"Depends on factors."
There seemed little point in continuing discourse along these lines. Supervisor Johns was already transferring Torton from Room A to Room D with frosty efficiency and minimal fanfare. Watching through the transom on tiptoe, the trio of non-PhD'd entities nodded gravely. Only time'd tell if it'd been a good move; the only discernible effect in the short run was the enthusiastic slaughter/dismemberment of the eight disadvantaged ethnic schoolchildren being held for questioning in Room H.
A year seemed to fly by without anything else of consequence occurring. The triad (no member of which had successfully defended his dissertation) was still sitting side by side. They were now in Room E. The third of them, Francis Frond, sighed deeply. Ned and Cot were good guys, he had to admit. For one thing, they did a lot of things. Moreover, their linguistics were sound. But you could fill an almanac with what they didn't understand about aromatics. Truth was they smelt of snail, dogshit, brine and hard boiled egg.
"Orton sorton Tor ton?" someone pointed out.
"Sure..." the same one replied. "...just be sure you durtun before you sediujkiul!"
They had a good laugh over this, but it wasn't as if durtun dur cock tur, fuck, fuck, cunts.
Date Written: November 04, 2004
Author: Jon Matza
Average Vote: 4.33333