To Hell With This Desk

Something has forever changed Rok Finger, good people. Whether it was my recent wedding to the most beautiful and loyal woman in the world or that recent colonic, I can't say for sure. But I feel, as I said, changed in brand new ways. Changed back to how I was before. No more galavanting off at the drop of a hat. I no longer need to insecurely plow through the far corners of the nation, seeking my next new thrill just for fodder for my column. I can find material from my regular joyful life—that is the change I've undergone. And I'm going to start by complaining about my goddamn desk.

I say this with all sincerity: It's a desk that deserves death. Whatever form of death you can deal out to a desk, I'm all for it. I'll debate all the right-to-lifers or liberal nutcases till kingdom come (next Wednesday, I believe), but that desk should die. It's the worst excuse for a flat surface to store pencils and everything else I've ever seen. It's a joke. Other desks laugh about it behind its back—we merely can't understand them because it's all in inaudible desk talk.

What's wrong with it? I'm glad you asked, using me as a proxy. Its drawers are too small, for one, and it only has one. So indeed the term "drawers" isn't even inaccurate. Small drawer. And a bumpy surface… why, my own penmanship makes me vomit. I can't stand to look at it. It's all because of the desk, believe me. I used to have the world's most beautiful handwriting (my "i's" and the way I dotted them once made Nelson Mandela cry), but this desk has turned it into Muhammad Ali's handwriting. With the boxing gloves on. And I'm not even bringing up the two legs shorter than the other two on this wobbly little shit. Okay, I mentioned it. I feel the need to be spiteful.

This may seem like another sudden shift in personality to some of you readers, especially those of you who have read my several columns praising my desk, and the handful of you who bought my book of poems dedicated to my desk. You might wonder, is this the same desk? Could it be the same desk? I can't tell you it is or isn't. All I know is this misbegotten wooden bastard was waiting for me when I returned from my honeymoon, and it's certainly not the character I remember from my old desk. However, when I left, my old desk was buried under a pile of clutter (not the snack cake Clutters; just various piles of paper, pens, pencils, paper clips, folders, and racist figurines). And of course my desk has been buried under that clutter since 1999, roughly. When I returned, it was clean. Whether it was due to the local janitorial staff, desk-cleaning vigilantes, or that birthday wish I made last year, I can't be sure. But I miss the desk that had been under that clutter. This one is the bane of God.

Come to think of it… why would anyone even clean a desk? What end does it serve? I think… and wild speculation isn't quite my area, but I'll play devil's Bagel on this one… I think it might all be part of a huge plot to swipe my desk. As if I wouldn't notice! As if I'm some rube who doesn't know his ass from another large object you can set drinks on. They've pushed me too far. I'll find out who the desk bandit is here and I'll give them what they deserve—this crappy desk they've already slipped me.

The thought of it alone steams my beans, and you all know how I hate wrinkly, moist beans. But they won't get away with it. I'll find them all and make them pay, the desk conspiracists who hide amongst us. I'll track each and every one of them down to the end of the earth if need be, and maybe even if they don't need it. It is fun, after all.

On a somewhat related note, this new desk they brought me this morning seems to be living up to expectations. Not stellar, but alright, in a fits-the-bill kind of way. Fast service, too, since I only requested a new one yesterday, when I got back from my honeymoon.

None of this, of course, lessens the crime committed against me with the crappy desk. Consider yourselves warned, conspiracists.

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