The Famous Union

| August 13, 2013

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The Famous Union


A ROLLICKING ROMP THROUGH THE HALLS OF ACADEMIA THE FAMOUS UNION by Michael Meyer has readers saying that it has “flashes of Vonnegut,” that it is “an academic version of Catch 22,” that it “is a hoot!” and that it is “one of few books that has made me laugh out loud.”

Famous Union is a pretty little college with expensive fountains, cute coeds, and brand new artificial turf on the football field. It seems like the perfect place to work, but not all is as it seems, especially when bungling administrators create theater-of-the-absurd conditions in this once very proud institution of higher learning. Hampered by severe budgetary problems, the powers-that-be at Famous Union College create situations that bring about comical chaos for faculty and students alike. How will the often eccentric characters cope with the drastic changes suddenly thrust upon them, where compromise is a four-letter word? Famous Union College is a place where what is what is not.EXCERPTBut after a particularly unproductive day cluttered with nothing more than boredom, Bill Ferris finally had had it; he knew he had to get away, or else, so he ventured across campus to the college cafeteria for an early dinner.

“What’s the special today?” he asked the young coed who was on the ready to take his order.

Buzzgetti.”

“What’s that?” asked Ferris.

Buzzgetti.”

“What?” asked Ferris again.

Buzzgetti,” said the young unsmiling coed, her face clearly demonstrating her growing impatience with the guy.

“Is that some type of local specialty. I’ve never heard of it,” said Bill Ferris.

Buzzgetti,” the tortured young thing said, two octaves too loudly for the crowded cafeteria.

Bill Ferris, finally resigned to the fact that he was not about to get any further information from her, decided what the hell.  “I’ll take a stab at it,” he said.

When his plate was finally handed over to him, Ferris sighed deeply, refraining purposely from uttering what he truly felt inside. What good would it do? What purpose would it serve? As he looked down at his plate of probably day-old spaghetti, most likely heated-over canned stuff, to boot, he was thinking that nothing around the place made any sense at all. The place had gone completely insane, crazy. Loco. It seemed more a lunatic asylum than a place of scholarly reflection and application.

But what a fitting end to his day, he also thought, as the tasteless special of the day churned around his intestines like worms squirming to their death on a sunburned sidewalk.

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