Big Tangerines: Edified Innuendos

Tangerine eh? Pretty clever, because it’s like an orange, but it’s not an orange. Oh, but do forgive me, orange is the official color of the most popular drunktank here, chosen by one Charles Moore, Athletic Director, Colorblind, on April 12 1889. That’s 123 years of not admitting stupid, though admittedly genetic, mistakes, this Thursday; don’t, for the love of god, mention that to any of the locals however. They’re a remarkably apelike bunch, in fact one knocked me down a well of stairs just recently actually; they’re easily frightened, K-Towners, but will return in larger numbers.

They’re a depressingly simple people, to tell you the sad truth. I’d spit on them with you from our pedestal, dear reader, if but I knew your name—I’m Col. Kurtz, by the way, call me, please, but call me Stagger if you do, cause if you think that’s a cool nickname then your my kind of boring, cultured snob. Stagger! Yes, I can already sense your acute appreciation of self-reference and irony, I’ve felt the presence of your kindred spirit since you rolled into town, Sweet Stranger. “Oh, a PoMoPhile! How droll!” you’ve no doubt whispered to yourself already, nerves dancing with a dry, dry humorlust. I commend your punning skills, you literate fetishist. Oh, do give me a call. I’m all dry for you, my sweet bookworm.

You can probably find me judging people from my room in Andy Holt, in Starbucks, at parties, or in my therapist’s. And every Pouter I see, every Party Pooper and Negative Nelly doing some light reading, perhaps the Tangerine, some Proust, or Ulysses, I’ll wonder if it’s you, my delicate, brilliant reader.

God, I’m so dry, baby.

But as for navigating Knoxville; stick to the shadows, and be brave. Try not to make eye contact with any of them, and I would suggest pyjamas or gymwear for camouflage, if you’d like to go unnoticed. You’ll see some of the weaker ones on the grates, making a valiant effort to stand out, but don’t be fooled by their mall-rat “fedoras” and “free-spirited” hair dyes. The athletes you’ll notice playing their University bought iPads in class, great big orange fellows, especially don’t start conversation with one of them, they exist under a sort of athletic immunity, so they could do anything. Everyone else is some strata of stupid between those two extremes. It’s a hard life, my beau, not for ordinary persons.

But worry not, you’ve come to the right place for culture, my hungry friend, and you’ll be eating right off my—out of my hand, rather. I almost said something—tasteless. Do forgive me. But yes, the moist, unprocessed pulp of the Tangerine will quench your animal thirsts, fellow traveler. Dare! Dare to eat that Tangerine, my dear Prufrock! Because, like the sign I stole in the name of ideals says, it’s time to show the world what this generation can do—dear, dear reader; you’re holding it in your hands!

by Col. Stag Kurtz