Dear X-Hole,
I'll say this much about the students: At least they go away. Tools like you outlast your welcome at "hello." That is, of course, until you surreptitiously pack up that hip bike messenger bag of yours in June to wave pom-poms for our cross-town rivals, the Flying Blowholes of Supercilious State.
I got a thought for you, Skipper. So hold on tight.
Instead of preening over your iBook, admiring your reflection in that liquid crystal pool of blather you barfed up for the rest of us, why don't you pull your head out of your buttsocket and look around. You sound every bit as immature as the 18-year-old snowflake who sashays across my path in the middle of a lecture to fire a spent can of Red Bull in the trashcan. Sure, she's a self-absorbed idiot. But understand this. She's 18. Someday she'll wise up. What's your fucking excuse?
You junior faculty kill me. Instead of dropping to the deck to throw a tantrum every time Grampa Emeritus gets his Depends in a twist, why don't you consider why he has something invested in Pond Scum U. I mean, can you blame him? No doubt, some doddering codger sporting a mortarboard showed him the ropes decades before you were squatting in your PacMan Underoos mashing fruit roll-ups in your piehole and rubbing one out for Smurfette.
If Pops wants to point something out, if he wants to give some advice - useless or not - who the hell are you to cop an attitude?
Here's the funny part. I'm your age. I've got Gen-X cred up to my eyeballs. I bleed flannel. The Rolling Stones make me gag. But that arrogance of yours just makes me cringe. I'm not even arguing with your shopworn bulletpoints. You're probably right on most of them. It's your table manners that suck.
And another thing. That simplistic article you attached on Gen-Xdom was three lollipops shy of childish. Is that the caliber of twaddle you use with your students? Mercy. You must really give those kids a run for their money in the classroom. Listen up, Professor KoolGuy, those doe-eyed freshman clustering in your wake as you saunter across the quad. The ones giving you righteous props for that fine retro toque you're sporting in August. After they collect their As in June, they shut the door to their dorm room, toss your textbook in the trashcan, and laugh so hard at your shit they wet themselves. Then they paste the whole mess on Facebook.
I've got some "instant feedback" for ye. Stop confusing this sprawling bureaucratic DeathStar U with a Dot.com start-up. Those desk tumors in administration were singing the same song when they were flipping peace signs and wearing icky headbands in the 60s. And they sounded every bit as immature then as you do now. You want innovation? That happens in your classroom. On your own two feet. If you think glittery bells and whistles like PowerPoint and your dumb-ass academic kittyblog are relevant, ask the kid dozing off in the back row if that shit matters to him?
You ain't teaching anyone here. Please take an iron to that oh-so ironic T-shirt of yours, have a cup of coffee with the old man down the hall, and for crissakes, get your head in the game.
I'll say this much about the students: At least they go away. Tools like you outlast your welcome at "hello." That is, of course, until you surreptitiously pack up that hip bike messenger bag of yours in June to wave pom-poms for our cross-town rivals, the Flying Blowholes of Supercilious State.
I got a thought for you, Skipper. So hold on tight.
Instead of preening over your iBook, admiring your reflection in that liquid crystal pool of blather you barfed up for the rest of us, why don't you pull your head out of your buttsocket and look around. You sound every bit as immature as the 18-year-old snowflake who sashays across my path in the middle of a lecture to fire a spent can of Red Bull in the trashcan. Sure, she's a self-absorbed idiot. But understand this. She's 18. Someday she'll wise up. What's your fucking excuse?You junior faculty kill me. Instead of dropping to the deck to throw a tantrum every time Grampa Emeritus gets his Depends in a twist, why don't you consider why he has something invested in Pond Scum U. I mean, can you blame him? No doubt, some doddering codger sporting a mortarboard showed him the ropes decades before you were squatting in your PacMan Underoos mashing fruit roll-ups in your piehole and rubbing one out for Smurfette.
If Pops wants to point something out, if he wants to give some advice - useless or not - who the hell are you to cop an attitude?
Here's the funny part. I'm your age. I've got Gen-X cred up to my eyeballs. I bleed flannel. The Rolling Stones make me gag. But that arrogance of yours just makes me cringe. I'm not even arguing with your shopworn bulletpoints. You're probably right on most of them. It's your table manners that suck.
And another thing. That simplistic article you attached on Gen-Xdom was three lollipops shy of childish. Is that the caliber of twaddle you use with your students? Mercy. You must really give those kids a run for their money in the classroom. Listen up, Professor KoolGuy, those doe-eyed freshman clustering in your wake as you saunter across the quad. The ones giving you righteous props for that fine retro toque you're sporting in August. After they collect their As in June, they shut the door to their dorm room, toss your textbook in the trashcan, and laugh so hard at your shit they wet themselves. Then they paste the whole mess on Facebook.
I've got some "instant feedback" for ye. Stop confusing this sprawling bureaucratic DeathStar U with a Dot.com start-up. Those desk tumors in administration were singing the same song when they were flipping peace signs and wearing icky headbands in the 60s. And they sounded every bit as immature then as you do now. You want innovation? That happens in your classroom. On your own two feet. If you think glittery bells and whistles like PowerPoint and your dumb-ass academic kittyblog are relevant, ask the kid dozing off in the back row if that shit matters to him?
You ain't teaching anyone here. Please take an iron to that oh-so ironic T-shirt of yours, have a cup of coffee with the old man down the hall, and for crissakes, get your head in the game.
