My Left Hook

Classes ended on Tuesday.  Woohoo!  I have papers and finals to grade and academic futures to decimate with quick scribbles of my pen but I can do that in front of the TV in my jammies with Love Actually blaring from the screen and a hot cup of amaretto tea making me very merry indeed.  However, this afternoon as Hugh Grant and I were stammering through our declaration of love — he because he thinks stammering is cute and disarming, me because my amaretto with a splash of tea was making my tongue feel heavy light like dancing funny — I remembered that I had to fill out some end-of-semester forms in the English Department.  The deadline was today.  At 5 o’clock.  And because I’m nothing if not punctual, I decided to wait until 4:30 before chugging my amaretto/tea, putting a pair of jeans on over my jammies, and dashing off to school. 

As usual, when I’m not expecting to run into anyone, I run into everyone.  In this case, I ran into someone:  my former Literary Criticism professor.  This professor is a great guy.  He’s funny, kind, and incredibly intelligent.  Almost too intelligent.  If you don’t know what I mean when I say “too intelligent” then you are just stoopid.  Ha, ha, Innernetz.  I’m just kidding.  I know you are all Mensa members.  But for those of you who think belonging to Mensa means that you ride the red flow once a month, you really are stoopid, move along.

Anyway, Prof. Mensa is a brilliant professor and he’s intimidating, to say the least.  But you know that I can never say the least about anything so let me tell you about the last time I encountered Prof. Mensa in a slightly inebriated state.  My slightly inebriated state, that is, not his. Let’s roll back the clock to Literary Criticism 2008, shall we?  I had a few hours between my first class and Lit Crit so I listened to the evil whispers of fellow classmates and joined them for a liquid lunch at a local pub. 

Lit Crit was difficult for me.  I was usually silent in class because I had no idea what was going on.  My fellow asshats classmates were philosophy students or studying critical theory.  While they were throwing around names like Lacan and Spivak, and discussing binary opposition and Saussurean Linguistics in relation to John Keats’s poem To Autumn, I’m thinking, “Oooh!  This poem is pretty.  It has TREES!”

I hated getting to class early because while I wanted to talk about Grey’s Anatomy or important issues like whether plaid could ever live in harmony with stripes (Answer:  No!), they wanted to discuss philosophy and other things that made my brain curl into the fetal position at the back of my skull.  The worst part is that they thought they were funny.  Eddie Izzard is funny.  Watching a woman walk down the street with her skirt tucked into the back of her pantyhose is funny.  My classmates were not funny.  I was treated to hilarious gems like: “Of course you know what Derrida would say about that.  Hahahahahah!” And then they would double over with laughter, wiping tears from their eyes.  Ahh yes, those witty, witty classmates of mine.  A laugh riot, I tellz ya.  Sometimes the pre-class topics would turn serious.  “Oh, I would love to have dinner with Foucault and discuss this.” Yes, I would as well.  “Waiter, I’ll have a Plato the Hegels and Lockes.” Hah!  How’s that for a philosophical reference, you pompous pricks?  Innernetz, if you are lost with all these references to philosophers and theories, I am too.  I still have no idea what the fuck what was going on in that class, and it ended months ago. 

Knowing I had to stay sharp, I decided to have only one pint of Smithwick’s at lunch.  Four pints later I dashed off to class vowing to sit at the back of the class and maintain my usual code of silence.  It was not to be.  By the time I got to class all the seats around the table were taken.  All except for the seat at the front.  By Prof. Mensa.  But the four pints of Smithwick’s worked wonders.  Not only did I understand the theories and concepts that evening, but class was fun!  I was laughing along with my classmates and contributing what I’m sure were valuable insights into the articles we were discussing.  My classmates were actually listening to me.  They were laughing at my jokes and agreeing with my observations. I was on fire! I was, dare I say it?  Pop-u-lar!

Toward the middle of class, Prof. Mensa said something I found unbelievably amusing and just plain unbelievable.  In my loosey-goosey state, I hauled off and punched him in the arm while slurring, “Shut up!” Elaine Benes style.  Yes, I know Elaine’s trademark was “Get Out!” but I couldn’t very well tell Prof. Mensa to get out of his own classroom, could I?  Telling him to shut up was much more appropriate.  I’m classy like that.  So yes, I punched my professor in the arm.  And told him to shut up.  In the middle of class.

Now, I don’t think I usually pack a wallop but his left butt cheek rose into the air a bit.  And so did his chair.  His whole chair.  The only thing that prevented him from falling over completely was my classmate to the other side of Prof. Mensa.  She was so far up his ass all semester that I think the weight of her infatuation and inflated self-importance provided a counterbalance that kept him from tipping over and crashing to the floor.  He gave a little chuckle and looked at me like I had lost my mind but he didn’t skip a beat in whatever tale he was telling.  However, for the rest of the class whenever I’d raise my hand to answer a question, he’d flinch. 

So, there we were today in the close quarters of the English Department office.  Me, with Mr. Darcy Colin Firth running through my head (really, add Love Actually to your Netflix queue), amaretto running through my veins, and Prof. Mensa looking for an escape route.  We made small talk while I signed the necessary forms and tried not to breathe on him.  Why was he even there?  Every other professor left campus yesterday and no one will see them until the Spring thaw.  Anyway, as I’m leaving I ask him about his plans for the holidays and wish him well.  Have you ever tried to talk without exhaling? It can be done.

As I’m thinking that I have finally managed to successfully conduct an intelligent conversation with Prof. Mensa, I wish him happy holidays and head for the door. He wishes me well in return and then says, “Hey, remember that time in class when you beat the living crap out of me?”

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