Watch Out for the Orange Fences

Yesterday, I saw a boy get tangled up in an orange fence. It was tragic, heart- wrenching, and otherwise detrimental to my psyche to watch it. But watch I did, fascinated-yet utterly repulsed-by the scene. Here's how it went down.

Boys A and B decided to enjoy a fine spring afternoon by frolicking on Slavin Lawn. The problem, of course, was that Slavin Lawn is currently a sandbox with lots of "No Trespassing Signs" around the perimeter. So, Boy A (an ingenious sort of lad) came up with the brilliant notion of tossing their Frisbee around the strip of greenery that runs alongside Slavin Center and over to Concannon. He even called it the "Faux Slavin Lawn": a witty use of Franglais. Of course, there was a problem with that plan as well. Boy B, with a heavy sort of sigh, reminded his companion that Faux Slavin Lawn is just as off limits as the Real Slavin Lawn due to the aesthetically pleasing orange plastic fence currently enclosing the grassy space. An argument then ensued analyzing the level to which each space was off limits.

Boy A maintained that Real Slavin Lawn was more off limits than Faux Slavin Lawn since Real Slavin Lawn is currently inhabited by bulldozer demons who reportedly eat bros for breakfast, while Faux Slavin Lawn would presumably reopen someday once the grass started to grow back or a frustrated student created a new entrance into Slavin Center with his bare hands. (Boy A doesn't believe in short sentences.) Boy B disagreed, asserting that Faux Slavin Lawn was a cute chick at Clubbie's and that the aesthetically pleasing orange fence was her overprotective best friend. (Boy B is an English major.)

Frustrated by a lack of green space on which to frolic, Boys A and B resorted to tossing the Frisbee in the mini-parking lot outside of Concannon. The argument, however, did not drop to the pavement as easily as the disc slid through Boy B's fingers. The debate in fact heated up, until finally, fed up with Boy B's awful metaphors, similes, and other bouts of poetic nonsense, Boy A whipped the Frisbee hard toward Slavin's exterior wall.

Convinced that catching this throw would solve the argument for good, Boy B chased after the disc at a flying gallop. Unfortunately, like a Labrador who forgets that he's running down a short pier, Boy B forgot that his whole thesis was contingent on a certain orange fence. He ran straight in to it, limbs tangling in the plastic mesh.

If the Faux Slavin Lawn really is a hot chick at Clubbie's and the orange fence really is her overprotective best friend, does that make me the sober observer able to laugh at how asinine this whole thing is? I hope so, since that's exactly what I'm doing. Although, I can't quite decide which element of the whole thing is the most ridiculous.

I'm leaning toward the fence.

N.B. Boys A and B are not real people and the event described is entirely fictitious. The orange fence, however, is real. The bulldozer demons that eat bros for breakfast are still under investigation.