Notes From the Mill: My Ass Itches
Yesterday, it being a holiday and all, Pee Wee and I were playing cribbage. I don’t like cribbage. I wanted to play Faro and Pee Wee wanted to play Bridge. We settled on Casino. Then we had an argument about the rules, so I got out the cribbage board. We had to use the plastic one because Pee Wee won’t use the one made out of whale bone anymore.
“I don’t understand,” I said, “You won’t use the whale bone cribbage board, but you still listen to The Smiths.”
“No I don’t,” said Pee Wee.
“I saw you dancing to ‘Brown Sugar’ the other day.”
“You did not.”
The whole skill in cribbage is scoring your hand, so Pee Wee always wins unless I distract him with banter. It never works. Luckily, Clarissa the intern came in and distracted us both.
“I thought you said you were never going to describe me physically,” she said.
“I haven’t,” I said.
“You have. You said I ‘distracted’ you both. If that isn’t some kind of coded male-gaze bullshit, I don’t know what is.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said, “It’s not hard to be distracted from cribbage.”
She made a face. I would describe it to you but I wouldn’t be able to without talking about her lips.
“I’ve discovered why we aren’t being distributed.” She said.
“What do you mean ‘not being distributed’? I said, “The ‘OK, Dumbies, I’ll Explain GOT 4U’ got distributed.
Both Clarissa and Pee Wee looked pained at the mention of that post.
“We are 1 for 16 this season.”
“And that’s bad?” I asked.
“Very bad,” she said. “Either Hughes or the Gray sisters are going to be on the phone any minute.”
“Well,” I said, making an exaggerated expression of exasperation, “What do you want me to do about it?”
“First, admit that there is a problem.”
“OK,” I said.
“No, you know how.”
I put down my cards. Then I shifted in my seat to look at her, took a deep breath, and said, “OK, I admit we have a problem. Our stories are not being distributed.”
“Now try to determine the source of the problem.”
“But I already have a solution,” I said.
She looked at me. I would describe her expression to you but that would mean talking about her eyes. I took another breath.
“Why do you think our stories aren’t being distributed, Clarissa?”
“Because we don’t own any of the rights to the pictures we use.”
I threw down my cards and yelled, “Fucking art department!”
“You can’t throw your hand down,” Clarissa said. “About ten sentences ago you said that you put your cards down. You may have just set a world record for fewest words between continuity errors.”
“Let me try that again,” I said.
I smiled. I pushed up my hat and said, “Good, I love it when we can blame the art department. Those fucking stoners.”
“You’ve put most of the offending pictures in the stories in yourself.”
There was silence. I picked up my cards so that I could have them in my hands. Pee Wee was moving his plastic piece forward by the tens.
“Now you’re supposed to ask me what the solution is.”
“I told you I already have the answer. We just start using pictures from the Library of Congress and Upsplash. Easy — Peasy — Lemon — Squeesy.”
I picked up my cards again.
“The digital rights to images in the Library of Congress can be quite complicated.”
I laughed. “Last time I looked, the American people owned those images.”
“That statement is a hundred percent wrong,” she said. “Do you want me to get Ladi up here to explain it to you.”
Ladi is our information scientist.
“Fuck no,” I said, “She’ll stop us from doing anything. Last time I asked her about hooking up the projector to my laptop she made me delete my Pirate Bay account. Let’s just do that thing where we add one stupid phrase to a series of silly pictures and give ‘proper’ credit. If the post gets distributed, I will be vindicated. If it doesn’t, you may be right.”
“I am right,” Clarissa said, “Say ‘hello’ to 1 for 17 on the distribution score. What phrase do you want to use?”
“How about, ‘My ass itches.’”
She looked disgusted. I wouldn’t describe her expression even if I could. Here goes:
Foto Phunnies
