Worlds Collide

I was driving home from work yesterday when I saw one of my professors walking on the sidewalk. In his pajamas. At 3 in the afternoon. Toward a park in Manitou Springs. I couldn't believe it. I used to think that he purposefully made his hair look like he had bed head for our sake as students- so we wouldn't place him on a pedestal or something. Now I realize that he actually never combs his hair at all. He really is a bum. But he's also got a PhD. in English. That got me to thinking about all the other crazy people who walk aimlessly around Manitou. Maybe lots of them have advanced degrees. Maybe the gray-haired guy who looks like a muppet and dresses like a hobo has a Master's in Theology, and the cat lady who steals our oranges is CC's Professor Emeritus in Philosophy. I can't wait to tell my professor that I saw him taking his mid-afternoon stroll through the park in his pajamas (this is the guy from Ohio, by the way). I almost rolled down my window and screamed, "Why don't you get a job, ya hippie!" but I decided not to, on the off chance that he would recognize me and give me a D on my next stupid paper for him. The guy showed up to class a couple weeks ago sporting a tie with a polo shirt. What a dickweed. It was odd seeing him outside of class (read: with his head outside his own rectum). It was like seeing a monkey at the mall. In fact, he may have been flinging his own poop...

Suicide Is Still An Option

I'm stuck in a class I hate, and there's nothing I can do about it. If I drop it, I'll be bumped down to "part time" status as a student, and if I stay in the class, I'll most likely throttle the professor to death. He came to us as a sort of guest lecturer all the way from Kent State in Ohio. Kent State is such a progressive and forward-thinking university that they are already celebrating their hundredth anniversary. Which comes in 2010. (For those of you keeping score at home, it's still 2006.) Nice one.

Anyway, professor Boringstate teaches a class called "Media, Technology, and Writing," for which I eagerly signed up at the beginning of the semester because I thought it would be about writing for new media and technology. Not so, my friends. Turns out it's a class about the relationships between media, technology, and writing, and their effects on the human body and language. That, professor Sockswithsandals, makes no sense. You might as well call the class "Boners, Cotton Candy, and Largesse: A Boxing Promoter's Approach. Please remove my uvula, or I will be forced to veto seven," which makes just as much sense.

He tells us to read a chapter in our 14-year-old textbook and then come back next week with one page of our "thoughts." So, the next week, I came back with one page of my thoughts, as did everyone else in the class, and we were treated to an hour-long lecture about how we weren't writing our papers according to Stasis Theory. Surprise, professor Needstoshave, we didn't write papers at all. We wrote a page of our thoughts, exactly as we were instructed by our incompetent professor. I've been getting A's on papers since before this guy was born, approximately. I'm not going to change the way I go about writing a paper just to gain the approval of a man who deemed it necessary to explain to his class full of Colorado natives what rappelling was. Guess what, professor Fromaflatstate, we knew what rappelling was before you saw your first mountain, jackass.

The creepiest thing of all about this guy is the fact that he has no idea how long one is supposed to hold eye contact with another person. He moves his eyes around the room, staring directly at every student in the class for a full ten seconds before moving on. It's messed up. I feel like he's either trying to melt me with the glare from his glasses, or, much more likely, he's trying to seduce me. I wouldn't blame him, though. I'm a prime piece of man meat. I've got to fight the ladies off with a shovel. Most of my lady friends, despite my repeated entreaties to remain merely friends, have fallen deeply in love with me. It's probably my fault... Uh... What was I talking about?

It's Possible That I Completely Forgot About This Blog...

But that's not what happened. I just didn't really have anything worth writing about. Well, there was that trip to Vegas... but I don't really seem to remember most of the funniest stuff I saw and heard on that trip. Except, of course, for the diner we ate at in Moab, Utah. It was called Eddie McStiff's. Such a family-friendly name. Our waiter was family-friendly, too. And, of course, by "family-friendly," I mean "a flaming homosexual." He sounded exactly like Kip from "Napoleon Dynamite," only without the charm. Everything we ordered was "sssuper sssweet." I almost kicked him in his ovaries. The food wasn't bad, but it wasn't really good, either. As we were leaving, Chris noticed a six pack of beer in the cooler just inside the door. Keep in mind that we were in Utah. The name of the beer was "Polygamy Porter," and their slogan was, "You can't have just one!" Self-deprecating Mormons. Who knew they existed? So then we went on to Vegas and blah, blah, blah, and then we got home. Oh, and I did actually win a little. That was cool. New York New York is down to me by about 6 bucks. Eat it.

So anyway, I went out to dinner with the fam tonight. We ate at Pei Wei. In case some of you don't know the procedure, it's basically really expensive and delicious fast food. You order first, and then you pick a table to sit at. Well, the line to talk to the stupid register guy is shoved way to the side of the room, so no one has a whole lot of space in which they can maneuver. We're all standing there like pigs waiting to be slaughtered when all of a sudden, some obese Pei Wei employee comes barging through like she's real people or something, and she's screaming "Excuse me!" in a not-so-polite manner. This, as I'm sure you've already deduced, pisses me off to no end. She does it three more times as we're standing in line (apparently, the stupid register guy is slower than I'd given him credit for). After one time, I loudly remarked at her rude behavior. After the last time, I leaned over to my dad and said, "We wouldn't have to excuse her if she wasn't so fat," hoping, at least in part, that she'd heard me. My dad seemed surprised. He said, "Andrew, one of these days, you're going to say something like that to the wrong person, and they're going to beat the crap out of you." I laughed. And then I punched a retarded baby.