Hannibal dePencier

I’ve entered the beast, the swarm, teaming hive of anguish, apathy, everything in between, the manifestation, the organism of madness itself that is clubs fair.  Year Ones surge, pens at the ready to proclaim their allegiance to chess and, breakdancing, while aspiring counsel, khaki clad, pepperoni pizza clutched, assemble before our Dear Leader DaCosta to sign up for the mock trial club.  Others loiter, snickering at the futility of our ambition and the comedy of our interests.  Perhaps they are wiser than us all.

No matter, it’s too late now.  I’ve entered the fray, weaving my way through the bristol board maze searching for a vacant position from which to launch my own propaganda assault on the helpless masses, preaching my righteous cause: TBAW.ca.  The robotics club set up beside me draws more attention; someone’s playing an electric guitar nearby – the bastards.  I find a few enthusiast lurking, eventually flowing in my directing, while most approach briefly, timidly, or arrogantly before ebbing once more into the torrent.

I decide to leave my vantage to seek out the scene.  I’m swept by the unappreciated, half baked, or well established clubs.  Some offer higher learning, some entertainment, others salvation, while the S.A.S club promises sex appeal; interesting… but, no matter!  I sidestep the heathens in search of a fellow misfit, a publication, Quiddity.  I eventually spot a sad looking green Bristol board, avoided like a rock by the rapids, and approach Carson Lamont a fellow enthusiast of words.  I see the list of aspiring poets, compared to the hoard and remember the words of Shelley who says, “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of this world.”  I think, ‘are we doomed?’ Probably.  And I blame that bastards with the robot.