THE YEAR WAS 20-DICKETY-DICKETY. WE SAID DICKETY IN THOSE DAYS SINCE TIME HAD LOST ALL MEANING; WE WERE ALL WATCHING A SHOW ABOUT A GAY REDNECK WITH TIGERS. OUR PRESIDENT TOLD US TO INJECT BLEACH TO CURE THE VIRUS. AND WE GLARED AT EACH OTHER ACROSS THE STREET WHILE WE HOARDED TOILET PAPER, AS WAS THE CUSTOM AT THE TIME.