...Not for idiots saying out loud every step of a math problem at just short of the exact same time that the professor does. You are just within earshot of me, and just out of earshot of our professor, and therein lies our dilemma. I don't believe you could possibly be more abrasive to everyone unfortunate enough to be within your sphere of annoyance. You are the mathematical equivalent of the guy at the gym sitting next to you wearing almost no clothing and grunting at a far louder than acceptable volume. Flex that brain, big guy!
Do you think it proves that you are more intelligent than everyone else in the class who chooses to solve their problems silently? You know, with a pencil... on paper? The only humor lies in when your dictation falls off kilter with the actual narration of the problem and you try to scramble to catch back up. I can almost feel the heat radiating off of your face when the red rushes into your cheeks after you audibly make a mistake. For a person so ashamed of failure, I would assume you wouldn't want to broadcast it to any ear that is already recoiling from your direction. Your desire for approval from all those around you must outweigh your reasonable modesty. That would also explain the frosted tips on your faux hawk and the diamond earrings...
I don't even want to go into the physical absurdity of your presence beyond what appears to be an attempt at taking the most deplorable douche traits from various subcultures and melding them all into the Voltron of douchebaggery that you represent. I'm honestly impressed, it would take a fair amount of research and effort to look like as big of a tool as you do. Thankfully, you don't falsify that assumption when you open your mouth...
In closing,
SHUT UP.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Mumbler
You sit two seats away from me, and yet I cannot decipher a single word that comes out of your mouth. How do you expect the professor, let alone anyone else in the class to hear you when you enunciate like your jaws are wired shut??? Do your thoughts sound that way in your brain? Can you understand yourself when you speak? What horror awaits anyone who is unlucky enough to have received a voicemail from you in the past? The possibilities are really endless. I can't get over the tenacity with which you refuse to make clear your points. Do they formulate in your head in the same amorphous, shapeless, meaningless form that they come oozing out of your mouth?
I would assume that someone who mumbles so incoherently would do so out of shyness or embarrassment, and only under duress of being forced to answer a question by the professor. This is certainly not the case with you, though. Your hoarse attempt at articulation can be heard rising at any given point of the class, in a brief spot of silence, in the midst of a lecture, halfway through another student's answer, it really doesn't matter. It never fails that our victimized professor will give you the courtesy of attempting to decode and then answer your question. This, of course, entails the stopping of the whole class for said professor to stroll over to your desk so that you can again breathe out whatever conglomeration of words you deemed necessary. Words that were so urgent that they could not be contained and interjected at an appropriate point and yet are spoken without any consideration for appropriate volume or phonetic precision so that anyone could actually understand them.
Judging by the professor's bewildered looks and shaking head when your meaning is eventually uncovered, we're really not missing much. So, "Thanks," for your complete lack of a contribution and perpetually irritating presence. Maybe, just maybe, you'll someday realize what a complete and total moron you sound like and take a vow of silence.
Just save us all the trouble. Please.
I would assume that someone who mumbles so incoherently would do so out of shyness or embarrassment, and only under duress of being forced to answer a question by the professor. This is certainly not the case with you, though. Your hoarse attempt at articulation can be heard rising at any given point of the class, in a brief spot of silence, in the midst of a lecture, halfway through another student's answer, it really doesn't matter. It never fails that our victimized professor will give you the courtesy of attempting to decode and then answer your question. This, of course, entails the stopping of the whole class for said professor to stroll over to your desk so that you can again breathe out whatever conglomeration of words you deemed necessary. Words that were so urgent that they could not be contained and interjected at an appropriate point and yet are spoken without any consideration for appropriate volume or phonetic precision so that anyone could actually understand them.
Judging by the professor's bewildered looks and shaking head when your meaning is eventually uncovered, we're really not missing much. So, "Thanks," for your complete lack of a contribution and perpetually irritating presence. Maybe, just maybe, you'll someday realize what a complete and total moron you sound like and take a vow of silence.
Just save us all the trouble. Please.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Philosophy Classes Attract The Worst People
Or they spawn under the handicap ramp outside the door...
Your shirt reads, "I'm out of my mind, please leave a message." I'd like, first of all, to thank you for the service to the public that you're doing by wearing that. If someone approaching you for the first time might, somehow, through glare on a windshield, a solar flare, a cataract, or otherwise mistake you for an intelligent human being, they'll quickly be made aware of their folly upon reading that brilliant little tidbit of information emblazoned across your chest. This minuscule social contribution, however, certainly doesn't negate the rest of the plethora of annoyances you perpetrate.
You are certainly not hard to miss, waddling your way into class, no earlier than 15 minutes late, every day, to your "desk" at the front of the class. I admire the professor's complacency in permitting you to flop your brightly colored rolling backpack on the corner of their desk; knowing full-well the stream of aimless question/statements that will be plunked awkwardly outwards, accompanied only by a dull stare and a hint of indignation. Your sprawl continues outwards incorporating not one, but two chairs to support your right leg which needs to be elevated constantly to alleviate what can only be a severe case of diabetic peripheral neuropathy. The case for diabetes certainly isn't helped by the snack bar worthy candy selection you unload from your backpack which you will line up and devour over the course of the class with almost as much regularity as your walking cane colliding with the overhead projector. Laying it on the ground would be way too easy, I suppose.
Once you're finally settled into your front of the class, borderline exhibitionist, legs open, fupa dangling position is when the real fun begins. When you're not overtly checking your cellphone for the text messages that I'm certain aren't there, you start the squinting. It's almost as if there is a connection between your eyes squinting and your jaw dropping, struggling to form that phrase that precludes every interjection you dump forth, "Could it also be..."
No. It is not also that. It has never been, and at no point in the foreseeable future will it ever be anything that you feel relates to the discussion of the rest of the class. The divergence between the suggestions you attempt to provide and the actual topic is so striking it will even occasionally bring our poor professor to a halt. It's like a super power, you are like a vacuum of reasonable thought that can somehow take a delightfully meandering discussion on relative ethics to some dark cave devoid of context and filled with misused words and Reese's Pieces with nothing but the display of dimpled elbows ominously flopping that pink hand into the air directly in front of the professor's face.
Also, someone drew a Stussy "S" with a jester hat on the projector... today... in 2009...
Thanks for making another class almost intolerable. I'm crossing my fingers to get a chance to send a bouquet to your bedside when you're resting in a diabetic coma and you can't wrestle your way through the door to plague us all with your existence.
Your shirt reads, "I'm out of my mind, please leave a message." I'd like, first of all, to thank you for the service to the public that you're doing by wearing that. If someone approaching you for the first time might, somehow, through glare on a windshield, a solar flare, a cataract, or otherwise mistake you for an intelligent human being, they'll quickly be made aware of their folly upon reading that brilliant little tidbit of information emblazoned across your chest. This minuscule social contribution, however, certainly doesn't negate the rest of the plethora of annoyances you perpetrate.
You are certainly not hard to miss, waddling your way into class, no earlier than 15 minutes late, every day, to your "desk" at the front of the class. I admire the professor's complacency in permitting you to flop your brightly colored rolling backpack on the corner of their desk; knowing full-well the stream of aimless question/statements that will be plunked awkwardly outwards, accompanied only by a dull stare and a hint of indignation. Your sprawl continues outwards incorporating not one, but two chairs to support your right leg which needs to be elevated constantly to alleviate what can only be a severe case of diabetic peripheral neuropathy. The case for diabetes certainly isn't helped by the snack bar worthy candy selection you unload from your backpack which you will line up and devour over the course of the class with almost as much regularity as your walking cane colliding with the overhead projector. Laying it on the ground would be way too easy, I suppose.
Once you're finally settled into your front of the class, borderline exhibitionist, legs open, fupa dangling position is when the real fun begins. When you're not overtly checking your cellphone for the text messages that I'm certain aren't there, you start the squinting. It's almost as if there is a connection between your eyes squinting and your jaw dropping, struggling to form that phrase that precludes every interjection you dump forth, "Could it also be..."
No. It is not also that. It has never been, and at no point in the foreseeable future will it ever be anything that you feel relates to the discussion of the rest of the class. The divergence between the suggestions you attempt to provide and the actual topic is so striking it will even occasionally bring our poor professor to a halt. It's like a super power, you are like a vacuum of reasonable thought that can somehow take a delightfully meandering discussion on relative ethics to some dark cave devoid of context and filled with misused words and Reese's Pieces with nothing but the display of dimpled elbows ominously flopping that pink hand into the air directly in front of the professor's face.
Also, someone drew a Stussy "S" with a jester hat on the projector... today... in 2009...
Thanks for making another class almost intolerable. I'm crossing my fingers to get a chance to send a bouquet to your bedside when you're resting in a diabetic coma and you can't wrestle your way through the door to plague us all with your existence.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The Rotund Rhetorical Rambler
I think it is so awesome that you have read every counter culture entitlement pamphlet you've been able to get your pudgy fingers on! Really, I do! I also love that it takes you about a half an hour to say that you think history is important. Your ability to pad every sentence you articulate with pounds of unnecessary adjectives is only matched by your waist size.
You give new meaning to the phrase "digesting information." Complaining about the cost of books makes much more sense when I consider the small fortune it must cost to keep you fed. Even the McDonald's dollar menu can add up when you need a Radio Flyer wagon to card around your lunch. The irony of your long-winded rants on the social injustices brought against you and the other downtrodden folks of our country being punctuated with flailing arms still shiny with french fry grease is almost too much to take. I thank the lord on high every day that I don't have to be near what I can imagine that smells like.
Not since the Reverend Jesse Jackson, or my 11th grade Social Studies teacher, have I heard a person say so little with such pomp and pretense. The verbose, psuedo-intellectual spew that you bark from the poor, creaking chair that trembles beneath you bears overtones equally heavy in cholesterol and unfounded arrogance. The late 90's civil protest tee shirt that is stretched so tightly around your midsection really shows the world that you're not going to be held down by the man. Apparently, you're not going to let gravity give up it's monopoly on keeping you down since you can't seem to get out of your chair in less than three breaths.
Get a life. Actually, don't...
You give new meaning to the phrase "digesting information." Complaining about the cost of books makes much more sense when I consider the small fortune it must cost to keep you fed. Even the McDonald's dollar menu can add up when you need a Radio Flyer wagon to card around your lunch. The irony of your long-winded rants on the social injustices brought against you and the other downtrodden folks of our country being punctuated with flailing arms still shiny with french fry grease is almost too much to take. I thank the lord on high every day that I don't have to be near what I can imagine that smells like.
Not since the Reverend Jesse Jackson, or my 11th grade Social Studies teacher, have I heard a person say so little with such pomp and pretense. The verbose, psuedo-intellectual spew that you bark from the poor, creaking chair that trembles beneath you bears overtones equally heavy in cholesterol and unfounded arrogance. The late 90's civil protest tee shirt that is stretched so tightly around your midsection really shows the world that you're not going to be held down by the man. Apparently, you're not going to let gravity give up it's monopoly on keeping you down since you can't seem to get out of your chair in less than three breaths.
Get a life. Actually, don't...
You are like 100 years old
Why the hell are you even taking classes? To what end are your studies? By the time you achieve any level of significant learning you will be bedding down in your coffin.
Your constant teacher-nagging and moronic-question-asking are the bane of my existence. Have the synapses of your brain stopped firing so completely that you cannot control the difference between an idea formulating in your head or just dribbling directly out of your mouth in the form of slow, poorly enunciated speech? Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps the entirety of the rest of the class doesn't want to stop the discussion and listen to your feeble attempts at intellectualism which seem to jut forth at random, completely unrelated to the topic at hand? I didn't think so...
Why, oh why, must you sit directly next to me and attempt to type your notes on some sort of keyboard with a tiny LCD screen contraption when you clearly haven't even learned your home keys yet? I apologize that Gutenberg had just created the first movable type press when you went to prom, but your enthusiasm for embracing technology does not excuse the horrendous racket you create hen-pecking your keyboard with a force that may only have been required when you used your rotary dial phone, not an electronic keyboard!
Also, I love the gecko tattoo. You probably got that about forty years ago or so, when you were having your first midlife crisis. That nearly indecipherable little blob of ink on your ankle doesn't give you any more "youth credit" than the liver spots that dot your arms.
You should really just embrace your age, drop out of school, cover that tattoo with thick socks and orthopedic shoes and resign yourself permanently to a wheelchair, where your inane babble will seem much more appropriate. Leave the academic pursuits for those of us who still have more surviving brain cells than we can count on both hands. You had your time, now please go die.
Your constant teacher-nagging and moronic-question-asking are the bane of my existence. Have the synapses of your brain stopped firing so completely that you cannot control the difference between an idea formulating in your head or just dribbling directly out of your mouth in the form of slow, poorly enunciated speech? Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps the entirety of the rest of the class doesn't want to stop the discussion and listen to your feeble attempts at intellectualism which seem to jut forth at random, completely unrelated to the topic at hand? I didn't think so...
Why, oh why, must you sit directly next to me and attempt to type your notes on some sort of keyboard with a tiny LCD screen contraption when you clearly haven't even learned your home keys yet? I apologize that Gutenberg had just created the first movable type press when you went to prom, but your enthusiasm for embracing technology does not excuse the horrendous racket you create hen-pecking your keyboard with a force that may only have been required when you used your rotary dial phone, not an electronic keyboard!
Also, I love the gecko tattoo. You probably got that about forty years ago or so, when you were having your first midlife crisis. That nearly indecipherable little blob of ink on your ankle doesn't give you any more "youth credit" than the liver spots that dot your arms.
You should really just embrace your age, drop out of school, cover that tattoo with thick socks and orthopedic shoes and resign yourself permanently to a wheelchair, where your inane babble will seem much more appropriate. Leave the academic pursuits for those of us who still have more surviving brain cells than we can count on both hands. You had your time, now please go die.
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