Thursday, August 28, 2008

When you marry a leftie

When Walker was at Texas A&M, the second best university in Texas - and I mean second by a wide margin - he had a group of buddies that he mostly met through RUF. They all moved in and out of a house they called "The Chill Basille" (not to be confused with "Club Love", the other apartment he shared, which has its own set of stories.)

Chilling at the Basille involved much hammock swinging, spittoon spitting and beer drinking and, from what I can discern, all of their conversations centered around one of two topics: 1) the ins and outs of Reformation theology or 2) strategy meetings to assess what sua-ve moves would best work on whichever lucky girl one of them was praying and fasting about making moves upon. Lots of thought goes into a "casual" sidehug, believe you me.

Basille is Greek for "house". I am sure they thought that part would impress the ladies.

I have never seen the house, as I don't plan many weekend getaways to College Station. (I know, hard to believe.) But I have always envisioned it to look a lot like this:

When they all graduated, the house continued to be inhabited by their various and sundry little brothers, including Seante. But eventually word got back to the Basillers that the house had been rented out to girls. I thought Walker was going to wear a black armband, so grieved was he by this estrogen invasion.

As the Chill Basillers have all married and bred baby basillers, they began planning annual Chill Basille reunions in Dallas. Walker lives for these. One was scheduled for this weekend.

It's like his own Siesta Fiesta.
Except it's nothing like that.

Last night, Walker came in and tried to talk to me while I was working on my Orient Expressed trunk show for next week, for which my preparation has made me the queen of all slackers. I shushed him and asked him to wait a second as I was involved in some very complicated Excel speadsheet maneuvers.

Because when your name is Missy, all Excel spreadsheet maneuvers are complicated and require the utmost silence and concentration.

While he was waiting, he picked up a piece of paper and a Sharpie and decided to draw me an illustration of the news he had to share.

Here is that fine piece of artwork. Can you decipher his hieroglyphics? (click on it to enlarge it)

If you can, you get an honorary degree from, well, from Texas A&M.

(Poooooor Ag-gies. Pooooooor Ag-gies.)

Here is what it is meant to convey:

Dave's pregnant wife Rebekah is being induced this weekend + potential landfall of Hurricane Gustav + Taylor's 'explosive' gastrointestinal distress = Chill Basille Reunion weekend now highly questionable.

If you got it right, you win a prize. I'll find you a prize. Something. You earned it. Because all he got from me was a very puzzled look.

Now I'll put this beautiful artwork up on the fridge.

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