"Know what a rainbow looks like to me? Looks like insanity jizzing across Satan's fiery backside."
Rarely will one ever get a chance to interact with something as pure as Janice Gaynor. Pure, blind hilarity. No idea that she's funny, no idea why anyone would think she's funny, probably get even funnier and angrier if she were clued into it. I feel like a physicist confronted with a new state of matter, or an element that doesn't fit into our periodic table.
There was only one choice left.
Felix Clay: Janice, it's Felix.
Janice Gaynor: Who?
FC: Just tell me why you're so angry. Why do you swear so much? Who the f**k gets so worked up about rhubarb?
Janice Gaynor: Stop calling, you dumb f**k, I've had it! You hear me? HAD IT!
I sat for a long time looking at the phone. Then purposely not looking at the phone. I watched TV. I worked. I ate some brisket. I sexted someone I barely know. It was OK, but I was plagued. Shouldn't I call her again?
No. No, Felix. This is a puzzle not meant to be solved by one such as me. Nor should it be. These viral videos, these zany Internet sensations ... when we dig too deep and pull back too many layers, are we any better off? Did you feel good when Rebecca Black made that video with Katy Perry? When Kai the hitchhiker murdered a guy? When Antoine Dodson decided he wasn't gay anymore? No. Those were all tragedies. And getting to the bottom of Janice Gaynor, the Rhubarb Lady, would be a tragedy, too. I would not delve deep like the dwarfs of Moria and expose her inner Balrog. I would instead tread lightly across her snowy crust of insanity, like Legolas. And so here we are.
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Done a good thing here. Time to go home.
I tossed out Janice's number. I deleted my emails. The hunt is over. The white whale has escaped. And I think I'm a better man as a result.