Bob Fu Goes to The Tea Club
“Dear friends (imaginary or not), it seems that fate has taken a liking in bringing me all the high school clubs of this dimension. Though I feel a bit disappointed for not being able to attend the fourth dimension clubs like the Time Travel club, I am satisfied with what I have. After all, it is the ego that shapes the human psyche. ”
Forgive my digression. A few months ago, I came back to Springs after a weekend of Mock Trial tournaments. Before I could settle into the coziness of my room, my Hispanic comrade Anton appeared. It was apparent that he had come in for a conversation, but my enervate brain would have none of that. Just as he opened his mouth, I phased out before I could even hear his voice. Almost compulsively, I about his name. As far as I can think of, the name Anton is most likely Russian, or it could be Bulgarian, Catalan, Croatian, Danish, Dutch, Estonian, Finnish, German, Macedonian, Norwegian, Romanian, Slovak, Slovene, Swedish… hmmm. How ridiculous would it be if he turned out to be a tropical jungle-Asian? My mind raced to confuse me, and I knew that it must be stopped before other utterly pseudo-intellectual ideas pop out. I struggled hard for control over my thoughts, and fortunately, I was back in control to hear Anton say the words “Tea Club”.
I looked at Anton as if he was the delusional one in the room.
“What now?”
“Do you want to go to the Tea Club with me?” He repeated himself with traces of impatience.
I didn’t want to annoy him with my questions, but nonetheless, I was genuinely confused and intrigued by this club that I’d never heard of.
“Since when do we have a Tea Club here?”
“Bruh, I don’t know.” He shrugged. Typical Anton.
Still confused, I asked him. “Well, where is it?” Yet I immediately regretted asking that dumb question. For, “questioning needs prior guidance from what it seeks.”
Before I could let Anton mock my unfamiliarity with Heideggerian thinking, I complied with his request but told him I had to go see Mrs. Johnson at the library.
And so, toward the library I ran, unashamedly excited for a new club that I could throw myself into. My father is a connoisseur of Chinese tea; a few of his friends own tea plantations, so he took advantage of their privileges unashamedly. Like father, like son.
It took me less than a minute to run from my room to the library, thanks to my chicken legs. But Mrs. Johnson wasn’t there, so I ran to the club meeting upon the same set of chicken legs.
As I approached the Blue Lounge, I heard several people shouting in exaggerated British and Scottish accents. This reminded me of the fact that the British love their afternoon tea even more than their nightly opium sessions. They were importing so much tea from China to a point that they thought it would be a good idea to balance out their trade deficit with tons of jolly good opium. DME (dick move energy). However, it should be noted that you would find the British in a position much more defensible if you’ve actually had good tea.
And good tea, my friends, is what brought me inside the Blue Lounge. There, I saw Arthur Slaughter, Jack Walley, and Daniel Perkins; I learned that they were the founding members of this club. The club members bonded as they drank tea and sang choir music. I dare say that the uninvolved eighth-graders there were acting with more maturity than we.
Although the tea available at the meeting was not quite up to my standards, it was truly an honor to be a part of such camaraderie and such excessive drinking: the greatest fun often resides in the plainest forms.
Unfortunately, my time with the tea club was cut short by cross country practice. I did not want to be late because I don’t feel like being publicly roasted by Senõr Mange again. So I reluctantly moved my chicken legs and moved on with my day.
And this, my friends, was my experience with the Tea Club. 10/10.
