Day Three: 5,119 Words and Welcome to Colon, Michigan, The Magic Capital of the World

Literally everything I wrote today was an inside joke, so it's hard to decide what to include. Chadwick Penneyworth sent a second memo following the Return to Office meeting- you probably know most of the content by now, but will share the conclusion to the memo:

Finally, I am here to put to rest rumours that I have disabled the wifi network and enabled an exclusive VIP Wifi Network. From what I was able to discern from the emotional tantrums you think pass for professional e-mail communications that these rumours are rooted in 2 pieces of “evidence”:

·         The Wifi is operating so slowly as to be rendered useless

·         A search for available networks reveals a password protected VIP Wifi Network option

There’s a lot to unpack here, but I will try to be clear. First, there was teaching before the printing press, and there was teaching before the internet. Act like employees with a commitment level of “11,” not “2.” Gutenberg isn’t a teacher here; Google isn’t a teacher here. YOU ARE. Second, as we make the transition from a workplace culture of female hysteria to one of male logic, to appease your “feelings,” I have struck an Ad Hoc WiFi Coordination and Contemplation Committee, which I will chair. Chuck from HR, Chad from Legal, and Brandon from IT will all sit on the committee. We will reach out to you with our findings but until then, let me say this:

There is no VIP Wifi. There never was VIP Wifi. There never will be VIP Wifi.

GOVERN YOURSELVES ACCORDINGLY.

-Chadwick Penneyworth, Vice Principal and Chair of the Ad Hoc WiFi Coordination and Contemplation Committee

Next, I decided I needed a change of pace so went to a real place called Colon Michigan, the Magic Capital of the World. The title of chapter 2 is The Magick-cian and the Barkeep. Here is an excerpt:

The fairground where the magic festival was taking place was packed, filled to the brim with magic enthusiasts, tipsy magicians, and groups of confused looking academics, who had inadvertently planned their Foucauldian Discourse Aide Conference on the same weekend as the festival, and in a location they had not expected to be associated with magic. A quick google search would have cleared up any confusion either during the booking process or during the actual conference, but the Foucauldians had sworn off of Google searches, swearing that Google was the anti-discursive scourge of the post-modern era. They weren’t wrong.

To add to the insanity, a mini militia seemed to have broken out in the middle of the fairground. Some children were touting wooden musket shaped guns with an alarming amount of glee- one young child in particular was grinning maliciously, while gripping the gun with surprising proficiency- a stark contrast to her adorable curly hair and sparking blue eyes. It was truly chilling and also impressive. Some children appeared to be playing dead, one pink legging-ed child laying face down near a sweet-looking but nonetheless gormless toddler, who was holding his “musket” upside down and had his hat tipped downward over his eyes in a becoming manner.

Taking all of this in with a dignity befitting his station, whatever that means, was Gordon the Great, holding court behind the counter of his booth, “Fartleks and Fangs.” He was still recovering from a rather unpleasant and prolonged public ribbing at the hands of adolescents who had shaken off their ennui for long enough to heckle the world-famous magick-cian with a series of fart jokes.

“That’s so mature,” he had countered, acidly. The adolescents had been undeterred. Luckily, the adolescents could only resist their ennui for so long and had eventually wandered off on their own before he had to come up with another snappy comeback.

His focus sharpened as a flash of red and white caught his eye. He turned his attention to a large man crossing the field with great determination, taking a few fake gunshot wounds from the mini-militia, and barely avoiding stepping on the outstretched arm of pink-legging child. He was dressed, unexpectedly, in a red suit, with a white fur collar and cuffs, a large black belt, and knee high black boots. And yes, you guessed it, this ensemble was smartly paired with a red fur-lined hat and white beard. Gordon the Great rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.

“Fucking Santa Claus. What a narcissist. Always gotta be the centre of attention,” he muttered to no one in particular, although the lingering group of Foucauldian scholars squinted and nodded in response. It was well known among Foucauldians, magick-cians, magicians and other magical folk that Santa Claus enthusiasts were the worst.