Friday, January 27, 2006

Where Someone Gets Us Back to Our Roots.

From an adjunct instructor at a four-year university in California who doesn't get paid enough to put up with this:

M: You don't have mono. I saw you on campus today with your sorority sisters, giggling it up and having a great time. Don't lie to your professors. Your paper is now late, and you may not pass the class. Good luck with the doctor's note and this class next term with some other professor you can try to dupe.

R: Dead grandmother? I saw *Ferris Bueller's Day Off* when you were probably still in utero. In fact, I was voted "Most Likely to Become Ferris Bueller" my senior year in high school. At least try to be original. I get 17 dead grandmothers every term. Try a dead step-godparent next time, and maybe I might believe you.

S: I don't want to see the "slut signature" tattoo on the base of your back. Please pull up your pants when you come to class and stop staring at my ass when I write on the chalkboard.

F: The books aren't expensive. They cost less than the rims you have on your Lexus. Prioritize or get a job.

P: I am not mean. All I ask is that you follow directions. I give you a very detailed expectation of what I expect, and if you don't get the grade you want, it's your fault and no one else's. I know your Baby Boomer parents have made you believe you're perfect and that your failures are everyone else's fault, but they lied. Just like those contestants on American Idol who think they can sing, you need a reality dose. Here it is in the form of a no-pass grade. Have fun not reading these books again next term.