A Final Oratory for Peter Rondeau-Sqwoo

Michael DuKnopf1

NY Times Staff Writer (AP)2

**An address to the Supreme Court by one Peter Rondeau-Sqwoo, presented entirely in the mind of the defendant and on record only because our greatest psychic's have managed to pry loose this speech through methods unreleased to the public and, in all likelihood, far too gruesome to repeat if even I were allowed to do so. Here is the full text of Mr Rondeau-Sqwoo's address- cover your eyes and read on; it's what he'd want you to do.**3

In the fullness of time, I have been present in school for something like twelve years. In the fullness of mind, I have been in school for something like six days. The first of these days occured in the third grade when I realised that the worst learning experiences of my life were occuring and, honestly, I would be better off squatting in a woods somewhere doing my part to eliminate the ant population through my bowels.4

The second of these days occured in fourth grade when I came to the horrible realisation that I would never have so great a teacher again, never have so influential a teacher again, as that crazy old woman, and that I would willingly eliminate ants through my bowels to be taught by someone of her calibre and by someone capable of influencing me so much once again.5

The third of these days is really quite lost to me, obscured in a haze of what was probably candy (I'm not, as stated, quite sure). It was sometime during early middle school, likely in the sixth grade. I do, however, remember wondering just how many Pixy Stix would be required to annihilate an entire Mongol population. The perfect answer, of course, is zero, only so long as you give them nothing else in lieu of the Pixy Stix.6

The fourth day came in the seventh grade, at which time I had an epiphany. I came to the amazing idea, it really did blow my mind at the time, that -yes-, you really are disgusting, and -no-, I don't want whatever it is you're selling, and -NO-, I will not bear your young, Miss, you're a little bit confused.7

The teacher did not find it so revolutionary a concept as I did, sadly, and I received a rather harsh scolding from the girl next door when she found out I called her pet hamster, a little boy, a Miss. She did not find it nearly as punishable an offense for me to be speaking to her scrumptious little pet in the way that I did. The worst of it, clearly, was identifying the tantalising morsel as a female.8

The fifth of these came to me in the eighth grade, when, in a moment of complete mental clarity, I denounced the existence of Jelly Beans with proof so undeniable that the blade of grass in my pocket could do nothing but agree. This warranted rather strange looks from pretty little people as I conversed rather fluently in Plant Language with Mr Sqwoo, my fiancee, that wonderful blade of grass he is.9

The sixth and final day slapped me upside the head two days before Christmas Break in this, my ninth grade year. I had made up my mind that my continued practice of eliminating hundreds of ant colonies through my bowels was not worthy of a Holy Crusade and that the Catholic Church was only trying to use that as a convenient way to get me into their houses. And I thought they were just looking for the ants inside my bowels. I wondered, really, how they could see them like that, but they said it worked and that I was a rather delectable boy.10

People asked me one day, not too long ago, exactly what occured to me during the remaining three years. Mr Sqwoo, I feel, would be best suited to answer this question, for he was the only person with unrestricted access to my brain during that period, as it was removed for convenience, justified by the press as a method of avoiding their prying questions regarding the curious disappearance of thousands of Mongols, billions of ants, and precisely six hundred thirty seven trillion ninety four thousand six Pixy Stix wrappers. It is important to note that they are perfectly certain of the location of the content of the wrappers. The location remains undisclosed, but Mr Sqwoo suggests that you utilise your imagination, because practice makes perfect, and this is a great place to start.11

Yes, sir, my name is Peter, and no sir, this is not a frighteningly sharp salad fork. Would you mind approaching the platform? I have...evidence...to submit.12