The Maroon Character

I read Nathanial Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter in high school, and was given vocabulary tests based on all the goofy words therein. Don't get me wrong! I liked the book, especially the character Chillingworth because he was such a sneaky bastard.

But nobody much talks like the people in Letter because in today's society, using any word more complex than "microwave" will earn you a punch in the gut.

In other words...

Putting to use any locution bearing greater intrinsic multiplicity than that of "microwave" will result in the user receiving a concentrated impact delivered by the listener via a clenching of the fist and its acceleration along a vector teriminating at the user's solar plexus.

That sentence would get you shot if you used it in a chat room, and it's a testament to my smug complacency that I'd even dare to use it on the Internet, period.

Anyway. A parody! Enjoy!

The huge, featureless monolith stood on the corner of 28th and Byron Center, framed by a forsaken gray sky devoid of life. The school building, with its flagpole rusted and bent, looked to have never seen the light of day and seemed preternaturally ancient. It exuded an air of malignance, and the Kid sensed this. He looked upon the edifice with a physiognomy soaked with disdain. Taking a deep draught of the horrid, chill morning air that went hand in hand with the middle of the week, he trod inexorably toward the grim portal. Upon reaching the threshold, a sudden and intense fear regarding the completion of his homework the evening past gripped his mind, the icy touch forcing him to stop abruptly. Had this assigned task been completed according to its meticulous instruction? An inspection of the vast array of folders and loose paper in his backpack proved that, alas, this was not the case.

“Blast!” said he.

The Kid gathered his materials and, significantly lower in spirit, began his trek down the wide and straight Road to Doom, the school’s main corridor. Along the way, he tried to fathom the unspeakable retribution that he would certainly be dealt on account of his iniquity. “Mayhap if I were to grovel a bit, the castigation I suffer will be less deleterious,” he thought. The Kid stopped at his locker—a dank, narrow fissure—and began introducing into it the texts bearing no necessity for the first round of torture. He was just about to shut the door, when a dark shadow enveloped his soul, and he felt the propinquity of the school beadle.

“I trow this morn to be an appropriate one for thee and the rest of the undergraduates to immerse thine minds in the wonderful ambiance of Trigonometry, or any other subject pertaining to theorems and the like! What think ye, young sir?” he asked with a chuckle. The Kid turned to face the antagonist.

“Math stinketh! Nay, it causeth mine mind to writhe in the malaise that is its utter crapulence!” With this, the Kid flashed forth one of his trademark haughty grins.

Duly angered, the beadle responded, his voice dripping with crustiness. “Ah! Thou hath demonstrated thy contempt for the number-subject! Art I to conclude that thou hath no comprehension of the great potential for joy lodged within its depths? For thy sake I earnestly hope not! I doth take pity upon the foo who refuseth to take for himself opportunity in broadening his mathematical horizons!” Having said his piece, the beadle wrapped his cloak about him, and vanished into the throng of students like a fart on the wind.

“What a creepy personage,” thought the Kid.


I hope you enjoyed that, time wasters! Now, if you could please not tell the Internet that I've been "spelling" and using "words" and stuff.