Meet Taylor, Brian, and Jorge: three boys from well-to-do neighborhoods who just want to know if they’re friends anymore and why. They met in the crucible of their local public high school’s production of The Crucible and have nary spent a month without a getting drunk together since. Here are their stories:
Having narrowly avoided the hangman’s noose in a know-nothing New England hamlet over the mispronunciation of the word “fillet,” Brian decided it was time to go to college. Par for the course, Brian entered into a SMAD degree thinking the acronym stood for “Satisfactory Money And Dollars.” It was not until his 6th and final year in the program during the presentation of his thesis, “German Expressionism in the Cartoons of Chuck Jones: A Exploration in the Macabre and Gender,” that he realized his error. All things considered, he’s doing quite well having recently moved into a boxy little home with two entrances and a new corrugated cardboard roof, all on the salary of a film major.
When he was born, Jorge was something of a medically idolatrous marvel. Upon his infant chest was an intricate pastiche of birthmark and freckle to produce a near-perfect copy of Pierre Mignard’s The Virgin of Grapes. However, as the blemishes beneath the image clearly spelled the word “Susan,” the high church quickly dismissed the child’s pigmentation as a minor miracle in the same holy league as a near-perfect game of baseball or a delightfully temperate mid-autumn afternoon in order to avoid a theological and public relations nightmare. After all, no deity has ever been called Susan, and the cardinals weren’t about to renege on two-thousand years of perfectly respectable Marys, Johns, and Josephs for one boy’s tummy. Since his younger fame, Jorge has become a dedicated ferroequinologist, and a patron of the local arts.
When asked about his accomplishments, Taylor replied: “No thank you, I have altoids in my pocket, but I appreciate the offer.”