By Tucker Iverson ’12, Journalist, Lover & Freedom Fighter

Invariably, in the mystical journey along the path that we call life, one experiences a multitude, nay a veritable plethora, nay a vast cornucopia of happenings throughout their short walk.  Being one of the “ones,” I too have encountered things.  These are things beyond your wildest imagination.  Things also within your wildest imagination.  This summer was no exception.  In fact, it has been proven by thirteen different specialists (and my mother) that mine was superior to yours.

“Well Tucker, what did you do,” a curious reader may inquire after reading the above paragraph.

Let me tell you.

This summer, I rode a mountain bike through the streets of Venice.  I fed an elephant peanuts with my bare feet.  I wore a leather vest while whistling and not once did I warble the incorrect pitch.  I went sailing on a boat that I fashioned with my bare hands from nothing more than three fluorescent light bulbs and a ferret.  I did four pushups and gained seventy-seven pounds of muscle.  I rode bareback on a Dalmatian.  I lived, I laughed, I loved.

I earned the trust of Wilbur Wonka, Six Flags ride attendant with no relation to the chocolate maker, and convinced him to let me ride the Kingda Kha twice for the price of once.  Of course, I was not scared.  I shaved a dwarf-rabbit and now have a beautiful pair of dwarf-rabbit-hair cuff-links.  They match my socks…also dwarf-rabbit (I like to wear them when I barefoot waterski, ladies).  On September 5^th, I went back in time and did it all twice.

Additionally, I breathed in wondrous scents through the orifices that I call nostrils.  A sampling of all the most delicious scents in the universe. This summer, I smelled “new car smell”, the chocolate perfume “Coco by Chanel”, and the mysterious scent of the “blue jacaranda flower” among the exotic flaura of the lush Venezuelan rainforest.  I also heard things through the mysterious organs some call ears and Mike Tyson calls lunch.  I heard the cries of a lost princess, I heard the sun rising, and I heard my mother telling me to do my college applications.  I saved the princess, watched the sun rise from the moon, and very nearly started those applications (I made a blank word document—progress).

The reader may also ask, “Tucker, with all of your various experiences, didn’t that make you at least a little bit hungry?”  I answer, yes.  Yes, it did.  In fact, this summer was full of delightfully delectable surprises in the culinary department.  As a self professed gourmand, I enjoy reading Martha Stewart Living as much as the next fellow, but this summer I found out things that I had never ever glimpsed in MSL.

This summer, I discovered the wonders of sipping a tall, cool glass of peach and endive yogurt out of a bendy straw.  I made a fine herbed pesto out of freshly picked ponderosa lemons and grape nuts.  I roasted spaghetti (not chestnuts) over an open flame  and drank exactly seven thousand protein shakes.

Now I hear you thinking, “Well Tucker, it seems like you have everything but love…” Well I may have you know, doubting reader, that is not so.

This summer, I found my soulmate.  And her name is smooth jazz.  There is nothing sultrier to the senses than listening to her crescendos and her flowing notes cascading into my ear-holes in playful scales.  In fact, we have shared many a sensual evening.   Me in my leather chair surrounded by sweet incense and scented lavender candles; her in her “CD Player.” There was a lot of give and take, if you know what I mean.  It was absolutely delightful.

So there you have it reader.  That was my summer.  It was far more interesting and riveting than yours—I’ve been assured by my acquaintances (Editor’s note: mom), friends (Editor’s note: mom), and relations (specifically my mother).  Sure, you may have gone to Africa to save children.  Or you may have even gotten a job to earn a little bit of your own money.  But I smelled chocolate perfume…so reader? I think we know who had a better summer.  Tucker Iverson, Grade Twelve.

PS: For those of you who think I’m being insensitive (and I’ve been assured by my editors that you do exist) I leave you with this piece of advice.  Life’s a garden, dig it.  (Too bad I dig it better.)