We want to shuffle our feet in shame at the coming to light of the letter from India. We were actually almost completely joking about passing off the important research to underpaid shelf re-stockers in New Delhi. But, you know, there was that 1% chance that we might actually not have to complete the research ourselves. And frankly, it’s getting a bit stale. The books seem to all be the same. We don’t know yet if that’s true, of course, because we actually haven’t researched them all. But we are at the exact mid-point of the mandated research and though we love Nancy, our capacity to imagine her splendid life is a bit strained because – let’s be frank – we actually don’t think we live in a world where all Irish police officers are kind and honest, where doctors are to be innately trusted, and where people with dark eyes are always leaning towards lives of crime (unless they have a tinge of sadness in their eyes, in which case, they are still leading lives of crime but are somewhat sad to be doing so). We live in a world where our government is running things for the corp corp and we are running to keep up with all the bad news. Researching an arcane and fictionalized world of middle class white people in opulent cars radiating goodness at frat parties is a bit hard to swallow right now. But swallow we will. If only because, as it turns out, all of the researchers employed here at the Institute are Virgos. Sticktoitiveness is our middle name. And attention to detail is the red-hot poker of our life.
We hope to give a shit again quite soon.
(Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode, which seems to be called Mystery at the Ski Jump. In this one, Nancy becomes an anarcho-syndicalist and tells her Dad to go fuck himself.)
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