Thank you to everyone who entered our first ever IRCPQ essay contest. We commend the bravery and creativity of all those who entered, but the judges came to a unanimous decision and announced Jen Little as the contest winner! Here is her Why I should Go with The Evil Mr. Phil to His Office’s Holiday Party essay. It's based on "The Love Song of J. Edgar Prufrock". I think that's the original title. Either way we think it's pretty awesome. Here it is...

The Love Song of J. Alfred Phil-frock

Ihay ouldway ikelay ootay
Ogay otay ethay ooglegay artypay
Ithway ouyay.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a laptop opened upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in chic midtown hotels
And fusion restaurants with truffles and morels:
Streets frequented by the one percent
With ludicrously high rent
Which lead you to an overwhelming search term . . .
Oh, do not ask, “What is it, smarty?”
Let us go to the Google party.

In the room the programmers stand and sit
Talking of Larry Page and Eric Schmidt.

The garlic fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The IRC funk that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the boathouse roof,
Let fall upon its back the soot that puffs from buses,
Slipped by the awning, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft December night,
Curled once about the place, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the garlic fog that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a ‘stache to meet the ‘staches that you meet;
There will be time to delete and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a search term on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the drinking of a free Genesee.

In the room the programmers stand and sit
Talking of Larry Page and Eric Schmidt.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Would it hurt?”
Time to turn back and revert,
With a rainbow-puking clown upon my shirt—
[They will say: “What poor taste that shirt is in!”]
My trusty stein, my beard protruding boldly from my chin,
My beer choice rich and modest, but asserted by the stein it’s in—
[They will say: “I bet he got it in Berlin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For deletions and accretions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life in They Might Be Giants tunes;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the Trolo from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that search you in an auto-completed phrase,
And when I am auto-completed, hanging in suspense
When I am pinned to the bulletin-board wall,
Then how should I commence
To spit out all the quiz clues of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the ales already, known them all—
Ales that are scotch and wheat and pale
[But in the lamplight, topped with foamy veil!]
Is it the scent of enchiladas
That makes me forget the script of Java?
Ales that lie along a table, or rest along the wall.
And should I then consume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through Google halls
And watched the dust that rises from the backs
Of lonely programmers in shirt-sleeves, leaning over keyboards? . . .

I should have been a row of Sarlacc fangs
Bristling amid the sands of the dune sea.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Soothed by typing fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
Stretched out in the pub, here beside you and me.
Should I, after beer and wine with spices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have cut and pasted, typed and prayed,
Though I have seen my beard [worn slightly curled] brought in upon a platter
I am no barber—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Bouncer take my ID, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the beers, the lobster mac and cheese,
Among the dishes, among some talk of quiz emcees,
Would it have been worth while
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the multiverse into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming search term,
To say: “I am Han Solo unfrozen from my carbonite,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling her bill with a credit card,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the hurricanes and the alternate-side streets,
After the common bond, after the announcement of the weekly score—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if projected from a back-lit screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling her bill or taking a phone call,
And texting to her girlfriends, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all.”

No! I am not Han Solo, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant droid, one that will do
To provide a laugh, start a scene or two,
Speak the language of a vaporator tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Knowledgeable in protocol, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the edges of my moustache rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear an ironic tee shirt, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the baristas singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them amid the cappuccino steam
Foaming the white billows of the milk drawn back
When the foam feathers on the coffee black.

We have lingered in the coffee bars of Inwood
By brew-girls wreathed with lattes and with chai
Till pub quiz voices wake us, and we die.