SAM
Hi.
My name is Sam, and I’m not the
So instead, I’m going to talk about Callum’s hands.
editor of Critic.
So the alligator enjoyed a very meagre and, as it turns out, very expensive meal. The size – or
Callum is a larger-than-life figure. Picture life
lack thereof – of Callum’s hands was the only
Callum Fredric, the real editor, was recently
itself, in all its scope and magnitude. Callum is
thing chaining him to the realm of us mere mor-
involved in a tragic accident. Mere days after
larger than that. But his hands were very petite.
tals. For as long as Callum could remember, his
recklessly writing “YOLO” as his official religion
They dangled impotently from the end of his
hands had held him back. Even walking into the
on the census, Callum lost both of his miniature
arms, like little dandelions, or toothpaste when
Critic office every day, the door adorned with
hands in a freak alligator-feeding accident. He
you squeeze it from the end of the tube. They
the image of two massive mitts, was enough
was unable to write the editorial this week.
were so small they could fit almost anywhere,
to send him into a fugue of introspection and
Because he has no hands.
a fact to which certain Critic employees will
self-doubt. And so, with the loss of his hands
happily attest.
comes the loss of his restraint. Once his new
I was drafted in at the eleventh hour to write
badass hooks are fitted and he demonically taps
this editorial and, to be honest, I’m struggling.
out his next editorial, this page will be devoid of
Writing the Critic editorial is a monumental re-
its characteristic modesty and self-awareness.
sponsibility. Previous editors have tackled such weighty issues as misuse of the word “dialogue,”
When you return after the break, you will witness
and whether there should be a large black penis
a new Critic. This new Critic will take no prisoners
in the Octagon.
in its quest for megalomaniacal domination over the student media world. Callum’s hands were
I cast around the windswept expanses of my
his anchor, his moral compass, a permanent
head for inspiration, but beyond some inane
reminder of his humanity.
pop-culture references and an inappropriately Freudian analysis of certain OUSA figures
And that fucking alligator ate them.
that some might say bordered on defamation, I had nothing.
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