Our first installment of what we hope will be a recurring feature, we interview the statue of Thomas Green Clemson, located just in front of Tillman Hall in beautiful Clemson, South Carolina:
TRC: So, Mr. Clemson, can we call you Tommy?
Clemson: You may NOT! Please call me Tom. I will also accept Mr. Ambassador, Mr. Secretary, or as my father-in-law, John C. Calhoun, called me, Mister Carpetbagging Yankee Fancy Britches.
TRC: Alright, let’s just go with Tom. How are things today in Clemson?
Clemson: Well, at present, things are particularly bad.
TRC: Losing streak to Carolina getting you down?
Clemson: Oh, nothing like that, I rather enjoy that. With all the losses to Carolina piling up, there’s a strange little man that comes around here at night sobbing, and I find the dour company somehow uplifting, actually.
TRC: Strange man?
Clemson: Ah yes – he talks about his mother a significant amount of time. Wears pressed khakis and has a rather severe part to his hair.
TRC: Wait, is it Dabo Sweeney?
Clemson: No idea – although now that you mention it he does keep referring to a “Dabo.” I thought it might be a modern local idiom for “a portion of” something because he always seems dissatisfied. But if he is Dabo, then he is referring to himself in the third person a frighteningly frequent amount of time. He also has an equally shocking limit to his vocabulary: it’s mainly a series of grunts and silent screams. He also slaps himself rather more than I care for. As I said, strange little fellow.
TRC: Um, ok, you mentioned that you were upset – what’s got you down?
Clemson: It’s a particularly large and menacing bird that keeps – ah – relieving himself on me as of late. Not quite so charming as a pigeon. It strangely claims to be my deceased father.
TRC: The bird talks?
Clemson: Yes, yes it does – but why the soul of my long-dead father would haunt me all the way from our home in Philadelphia is beyond me.
TRC: Why do you think the bird is your father?
Clemson: He says so himself. I hear a rustling of feathers, the jangle of spurs, and just before a large and pungent deposit is made upon my features I hear the unmistakable query of “who’s your daddy?” coming from the monster. It is unbearable.
TRC: Sounds awful.
Clemson: It is! Although in all honesty it is far better than when the local denizens tie their livestock to my lower legs.
TRC: Livestock? Why are they tying them to your legs?
Clemson: I haven’t the foggiest notion. They are always particularly smelly and appear ill-bred. I am referring here to both the locals and the livestock. Flashing wads of cash around and yelling for people named Sammy, Bellamy, or (and let me make sure I’m pronouncing this correctly) Louteek. These local gentry leave their pigs and goats tied up while they apparently search for these cash-starved gentlemen.
TRC: This sounds annoying, but I don’t really see what so bad about it, really.
Clemson: Oh you don’t do you? Well you haven’t seen what the locals do to the livestock, obviously. Let’s just say they don’t just milk those goats, friend [shudders].
TRC: [also shudders] Eh, let’s change the subject, shall we? Have you heard any of the rumors of Clemson bolting for the Big 12?
Clemson: [slightly raises his voice] I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to never raise that subject with me again, sir!
TRC: Well it is widely rumored . . .
Clemson: Perhaps so! But I do not see how my marital difficulties are any-
TRC: Wait, marital difficulties?
Clemson: Yes! Perhaps my wife, the former Miss Calhoun, Now Mrs. Clemson, is threatening to leave me again for her former paramour, but I will not discuss it with you of all people!
TRC: No disrespect intended, Mr. Clemson. But if I might ask, what does the Big 12 have to do with your wife?
Clemson: I wish I knew! But for reasons that have never been expounded to me, that is the nickname that Mrs. Clemson uses for him!
TRC: /quietly departs.
The Rubber Chickens Blog 