Lab #9

Part One:

1.
a) I am writing for the Montrealers, the ones serviced by the Jean Marcotte water sanitation plant. I write for travelers who have used a squat toilet, a bidet or a bum gun. I write for people like Alexandre who waste so much time on the internet, amassing knowledge that would never be of use. I write for people who giggle when talking about poop, because they mask their fascination with humor. I write for my former teacher that said he could write a paper about the accolades of George W. Bush, even if he is a gay liberal, because a writer should be able to make any topic interesting to most readers.
2)
a.) What is the purpose of your article?
To pass my last English course.
b.) Why are you writing it?
To prove that a paper on bidets can be as enjoyable to write as a paper on literally anything else.
c.) What do you hope to accomplish? In what specific way do you hope to affect the group of people you’re writing for?
To either inform or entertain any reader who ever read anything a writer writes.
Someone else said that, i think it was Kurt Vonnegut. I wouldn’t be able to write with his mad passion.
Part Four:

 

He drove slowly towards the towering oil silos of Pointe-Aux-Trembles hoping that I would forget about trying to infiltrate the Jean R. Marcotte water plant. He let me blabber on about the new Tesla, and how hybrid sales are disappointing. He did not know that I noticed his hands on the steering wheel were cold and white. The GPS redundantly said “you have arrived”. We already knew where we were, we saw the tower, the almost empty parking lot and the unassuming guard post. Alexandre parked, and said for the final time, this is not a good idea. I must’ve said there are no bad ideas, only poorly made plans. I did not know what I wanted to do until I reached the guard post and a big man bellowed to me, “Oy.”

His name was Robert and he talked with his hands, not with his mouth. His eyes squinted at my obnoxiously big camera, and asked what my business was going there on a weekend. He adapted a wide stance. I notice the three cameras pointed at his direction. I understood, but I still wanted information, pressing him like he was a crunchy pickle in a moist smoked meat sandwich. He must’ve been amused because he told me to come back on a weekday, with the busy throttle of workers painting a better picture of the place. Robert saw gumption, or the same foolish motivation that Alexandre saw, because as a goodbye he told me the entire kilometre facility is fenced off. I waved good-bye and he offered a tiny sigh of relief.

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