Several weeks ago, Jamie and I visited Virginia Beach for the annual Boardwalk Art Show. After a long day of picking over the work of the artists in attendance—and almost buying a print by LJ Eidolon—we visited an arcade called Flipper McCoy’s.

We easily racked up over a thousand tickets. I decided to spend 300 of them on an eraser-pink, rubbery whoopie cushion.

A young woman at Flipper McCoy’s rang up our purchases.

“I’m going to put that whoopie cushion in Greg Patterson’s chair,” I said.

The whoopie cushion was invented in antiquity. Egyptian pharaohs were known to place inflated animal bladders under the seats of foreign dignitaries. After Europeans discovered rubber, demand for the whoopie cushion exploded, with sales increasing every year until World War II.

By 1930, whoopie cushion manufacturers were purchasing over half of the Belgian Congo’s rubber export (Wikipedia).

Greg Patterson’s butt was invented in 1992, in Montana. It now sits in the chair of the English Department’s senior administrative assistant. On December 13, 2023, butt met rubber; two strands of history collided in a timeless flatulence.

As the young woman bagged our whoopie cushion, she asked us where we worked.

“We teach creative writing at VCU,” I said.

“I wish I had young professors,” she said. “I go to Liberty, and I swear to God, all my professors are eighty years old. They don’t know anything about my life.”

I nodded, anxiously waiting for her to hand me the whoopie cushion.

“It’s the tenure,” I said. “They equate retirement with death.”

At last, I accepted the whoopie cushion. And with it, I accepted the mission to quicken the blood of the VCU English department. The bruit of this would echo through the halls.

“These whoopie cushions,” the young woman said, “are really best for little kids. I wouldn’t put one in a grown-up’s chair. Somebody could get hurt.”

“How?” Jamie asked.

“Greg’s been hurt before,” I said.

END PART ONE