Sunday, November 9, 2008

A New RYS-er Brings Some Old School Smackdown. Otto from Omaha, You Have the Floor. Let the Bitchslap Begin.

Miss Hotness:
Why in the name of God do you show up for a nine a.m. class dressed like you're about to go out for a night of drinks at the club? I realize you're still a freshman, and maybe you like to look good or whatever - anyone who's seen the way I dress knows I can't throw stones. But seriously, is this an attempt to sway me? The quivery lip and the doe eyes when you came to complain about the grade on your first paper made me wonder. However, I quickly came to realization that the spectacular decolletage on display that day wasn't just for me so much as for anyone who cares to look. That's fine, honey, if that's your deal, but see if you can tear yourself away from the wardrobe and makeup mirror long enough to, I don't know, implement ANY of the NUMEROUS suggestions I made on your draft, even some of which might have moved your grades up out of the nearly-failing range to something respectable.

Dipshit Jones:
You came to class twice during the semester, failed to turn in one of three papers on which almost your whole grade is based, and missed the midterm. Why the fuck would you get up to go to an eight a.m. final? What possible purpose could it serve? Especially when you "finished" the whole test in twenty minutes, on precisely one page of the blue book. You scored in the single digits... on a percentile scale. Congratulations. On the other hand, your arrival did provide one of the funniest moments of the semester. Remember, just before the final started, when you asked for a blue book and one of the other (good) students volunteered to give you one. She started to dig into her bag, then looked at you quizzically and asked, "Are you even IN this class?" It was all I could do to not die laughing right there. So, yeah, actually, thank you for your bottomless stupidity. I wouldn't have had that moment without it.

Douchebag Nontrad:
If you tell me one more time how you make more than I do already, and how that somehow means that my subject is irrelevant to you and that you don't feel, therefore, you should have to do any of the assignments, I swear by all that's holy I'll find a way to make SURE you fail the course. Thankfully, you're saving me a whole lot of work by skirting the edge of flunkdom already.

Hipster Scum:
I am not your fucking friend. I do not want to grab coffee and talk shop. I do not want to do these things because you are eighteen and think, having read a book or two and come to my class sporadically for two weeks, that you have some insights to share. You don't. Go grab whatever horrible torment your kind has inflicted on coffee this week with some of your text messaging, iPod wearing friends and share your inane observations with them. I'm sure they'll reciprocate. If we grabbed a drink together and tried to talk shop, it would turn into private tutoring for Intro, and that's not what I do to relax, believe it or not. The people I enjoy talking about my discipline with are the people I consider colleagues - professors, graduate students, and even some bright and well read upperclassmen majors who hang out in the lounge from time to time. If you want me to care about anything you have to say on the subject, show me you know something about it... something your first paper failed at, miserably.