Welcome to Bismark's page -- this should soon be replaced by something written by Bismark himself or by Red.

I'm sitting here with my pal Red, quietly and calmly absorbing the radiation off the computer monitor. 3:30 in the morning. No big deal. We're self-trained insomniacs, me and him; this is kid's stuff. I look over Red's shoulder. Another English assignment. Another chance to practice the well honed skill of procrastination. Clambering onto his shoulder, I lose balance and cling to his right ear. "Hey," he says in exasperation as he pulls me onto a safer position right on top of the printer, "do you know any Shakespeare?" I've never heard of the bloke and tell him so. "Aargh!!" He screams, "I'm never gonna finish this..."

Sometimes the best thing to do is to calmly take it in and ignore Red. Now is one such occasion. I merely shrug and turn back to my book on pre-world war I Europe. Yes. Bismarkian politics. Red had a very historical sense of irony, when he named me Bismark, but hey, I got used to it. Besides, being a politician looks kinda cool. I wonder if I could run for Prime Minister or something. No matter.

There's a rumble and I topple off my precarious perch on the printer. Horrors upon horrors, 10 pages of English essay spew out of the insidious machine, suffocating me under thesis and conclusion. "Owwie!" I cry, but of course, Red doesn't notice. He's busy printing another copy.

After 10 minutes, Red blinks and looks around. The effects of the computer radiation is slowly wearing off and he begins to drift to sleep. Oh well. At least I'm tucked in for the night.

[ November 3rd 2001 03:30 | 0 responses | Add Comments ]