This one comes with a censor’s warning.
Possibly offensive language: a naughty word is used in the interest of verisimilitude. Those older than 70 are advised to avert their eyes [or go shopping at one of the Subversive Archaeologist’s online boutiques].
[I know that this warning appears a bit odd. But, after all, this isn’t a real-time conversation entailing the use of hearing—it requires reading—so it would’ve made no sense at all if I’d said “Plug your ears!”]
Like Donkey in Shrek I need a hug. This past week has been something of a hebdomas horribilis* for me.
First I was
accused of teased about having a man crush on Tom Higham, and displaying my ignorance at the intellectual ancestry of the ultrafiltration technique, increasingly used for ultra-precise radiocarbon age estimates. Mihi ignoscas.**
Then I was [gently, but authoritatively] told what I didn’t know about discriminant function analysis. Ego stultus sum.***
Next, after having prepared, spent treasure, and launched the “A drink is like a hug” line of fine gifts—my “damn-the-torpedos, full-speed ahead” grab at the entrepreneurial brass ring—I came to the disappointing conclusion that my roll of the dice was, in fact a total embarrassment to me.
|I’d likely be in this pose
permanently if it weren’t
for the fact that I need
two hands to type. Credit
Not only am I embarrassed [yet, rather painfully bound to carry it through considering the time and treasure I’ve put into it], my “A drink is like a hug” enterprise has all of two likes on facebook, and hasn’t make a single red cent, and will never go ‘viral’! [Nor is likely to, I’ll wager. Wait! Belay that! I don’t need to lose any more of my self-respect or pension money by betting against a sure thing!]****
Finally, and worst of all [by any measure you’d care to use], in a belated comment addressed to me for something I said ages ago about Paul Pettitt’s fanciful book on the evolution of burial, I was confronted with this unforgettable bit of mobile-phone shorthand:
ur 1 cheky cnut m8 i swr il mes u up
[Translation: You’re one cheeky cunt, mate. I swear I’ll mess you up!]
Who could’ve predicted that I’d be the victim of hate mail, much less barely disguised and therefore ambiguous threats to my person? Not me, evidently. [BTdub, the use of “mate” in this context is almost the perfect example of the use of dramatic irony.]
I’ve decided to leave the dastardly comment where it was left, for all to see. I realize that it might seem a bit odd to do so. But there’s madness behind my method. I could have a mysterious accident, or vanish without a trace. In that case I would hope that one of you will be asked to depose your knowledge of this threat in an Interpol interview, following which they’ll track down the perp, and bring him/her/it to justice! In theory, at least.
All in all, I dunno whether to laugh, cry, shoot myself or call the police. Wait a minit! I refuse to do the dirty work for my newest fan. So I won’t shoot myself. Couldn’t anyway—I must be the only gunless human being in the United States. Notwithstanding, I still might try the other three, to see where it gets me.
Funny ol’ world. Isn’t it? Laugh a minit!
* Latin for “shitty week“
** Latin for “gimme a break“
*** Latin for “I’m a fool“
**** English for “the online store thing is, on the evidence, another non-starter among many in my ongoing effort to avoid ever again having to work for someone else“
ANY TIME IS A GOOD TIME TO GET GOOD STUFF AT THE SUBVERSIVE ARCHAEOLOGIST’S OWN, EXCLUSIVE “A DRINK IS LIKE A HUG” ONLINE BOUTIQUE
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