Snibbet: SGA / Bruno & Boots
So rageprufrock was all, Hey, write me a snibbet, and I thought about it, and then I woke up from a bad dream at four in the morning, and I wrote this.
Elmer Drimsdale's second day in Macdonald Hall (the first, of course, being taken up with alphabetizing his reference materials and hiding his various forms of contraband--the cell culture he's working on taped to the inside of the toilet tank, the more volatile chemicals in his collection disguised as things like shoe polish and an old Dr. Pepper can), he stands transfixed in a hallway outside the student lab and reads the awards given by the Hall to its best and brightest. Not the "Outstanding Achievement" ones, they give those every year to whoever happens to be the least dumb: no, the special awards, once in a blue moon, to someone who's created a new species of apple (Robinson, 1936) or built a car powered by french-fry grease from the cafeteria (Draper, 1975).
One name in particular shows up on several plaques, actually, outstanding achievements in math and physics, solving this proof, building that rocket, and Elmer knows that if he can achieve one solitary plaque on this wall, his life will be complete.* He wonders where the man is now, imagining him: crisp white coat, in a sparkling-white lab, surrounded by equipment so complicated you practically need a PhD to even read the owner's manual. Legions and legions of graduate students to do his bidding; acres of time in which to perfect every experiment, test every variable; the respect and admiration of his colleagues; funding and assistants and everything he wants.
Caught in a rare daydream, Elmer touches the plaque, traces the name with his fingertips, potential and perfection engraved in brass:
Rodney McKay.
***
His only warning is a small blup? and a small aggressive explosion goes off, showering Rodney with dear-god-I-hope-that's-pudding and prompting a smattering of applause from everyone in the mess who appreciates the difficulty inherent in getting something like exploding dessert onto one particular person's tray, which is everybody.
Rodney twists around in his seat, tan glop in his hair and down his front, and yells, "Oh, very funny, Major!"
-----
*He does so, in December, at which point his life ambitions shift a smidge to involve words like tenure and Nobel.
EDIT: Apparently it was quite well received.
Elmer Drimsdale's second day in Macdonald Hall (the first, of course, being taken up with alphabetizing his reference materials and hiding his various forms of contraband--the cell culture he's working on taped to the inside of the toilet tank, the more volatile chemicals in his collection disguised as things like shoe polish and an old Dr. Pepper can), he stands transfixed in a hallway outside the student lab and reads the awards given by the Hall to its best and brightest. Not the "Outstanding Achievement" ones, they give those every year to whoever happens to be the least dumb: no, the special awards, once in a blue moon, to someone who's created a new species of apple (Robinson, 1936) or built a car powered by french-fry grease from the cafeteria (Draper, 1975).
One name in particular shows up on several plaques, actually, outstanding achievements in math and physics, solving this proof, building that rocket, and Elmer knows that if he can achieve one solitary plaque on this wall, his life will be complete.* He wonders where the man is now, imagining him: crisp white coat, in a sparkling-white lab, surrounded by equipment so complicated you practically need a PhD to even read the owner's manual. Legions and legions of graduate students to do his bidding; acres of time in which to perfect every experiment, test every variable; the respect and admiration of his colleagues; funding and assistants and everything he wants.
Caught in a rare daydream, Elmer touches the plaque, traces the name with his fingertips, potential and perfection engraved in brass:
Rodney McKay.
***
His only warning is a small blup? and a small aggressive explosion goes off, showering Rodney with dear-god-I-hope-that's-pudding and prompting a smattering of applause from everyone in the mess who appreciates the difficulty inherent in getting something like exploding dessert onto one particular person's tray, which is everybody.
Rodney twists around in his seat, tan glop in his hair and down his front, and yells, "Oh, very funny, Major!"
-----
*He does so, in December, at which point his life ambitions shift a smidge to involve words like tenure and Nobel.
EDIT: Apparently it was quite well received.