Rice Wine?  Really?

It happens every year.  Mr. Dingo’s office does the stupid Secret Santa gift exchange and I run all over the city trying to find something intriguing and unique for him to give.  This year he had three (THREE!) Secret Santa gift exchanges.  That’s partially my fault.  He started out with only one Secret Santa exchange but the gifts I pulled myself away from the Law & Order marathon to find were so cool that other groups in his office asked him to join theirs.  By the time we finished shopping for the gift extortion we had only enough money in our bank account to tell family and friends, “Well, maybe next year.”

What’s even worse than exchanging gifts with someone you probably wouldn’t even exchange a greeting with on a normal day is that his gifts?  The ones he received?  Suck.  They suck Yeti balls.  Would anyone like a bottle of rice wine?  I can’t even re-gift that shit.  Hmmm…maybe I’ll use it for a future giveaway.  Along with some toe jam and a copy of Weird Al Yankovick’s Greatest Hits.  Yes, he actually has a Greatest Hits CD.  If you own it, we can no longer be friends.

But friends and relatives be damned, I have gifts for you, Innernetz!  Thanks for entering my giveaway for Keri Smith’s The Guerilla Art Kit and Living Out Loud.  I actually think I’m going to go buy copies of these for myself. For those of you too lazy humble to link to your own writing, there will be future giveaways and contests.  I’m trying to think of something great to giveaway for my blogaversary in February. 

I really enjoyed re-reading the posts that my fellow bloggers linked to.  You should grab yourself a nice glass of rice wine and curl up with these good reads:

• April at It’s All About Balance wrote about The Power of Negative Thinking for LA Moms.

• Mel Heth from Melissunderstandings, Life According to Mel Heth submitted what I am sure will be in Fox Television’s Spring line-up, When Necklaces Attack.

• New Life In South Dakota’s Kate has a unique take on hair care with It’s Raining Today.

• Ms. Darkstar at Darkstarian Discourse and Diversions somewhere in the frozen tundra is a longtime blogger with a new blog.  She submitted The Stupid, It Burns.

• If you needed proof that blakspring is actually female, she provides it with Proof That I May Actually Be Female.

• Fancy pants wearing Meg at Golightly writes about election night bingo and the trauma of not finding “Giant Shit Burger” on the Bingo cards in What A Relief.

• Marjolein at Won’t Let Life Define Me has Random Thoughts While Working At Home.

• Jenny is truly Wonder Woman.  She lives in a Cottage on Fox Hollow and submitted an entry about Brain Surgery. I almost felt bad laughing at some of her experiences but I know that she wants to be treated no differently than anyone else.  Since I laugh at everyone else, she’s fair game.

• stealthnerd over at Strict Shenaniganist is a Nyquil lightweight.  The sniffling, sneezing, blah, blah, blah medicine gives her a Nyquil hangover.

• You know the person in front of you at Subway who places an order for a gabillion people in her office, holding up the line until your lunch hour is over?  Ms. H at Molding Young Minds is That Girl.  She must be stopped.

• I would love Angst Girl Jules even if her dog Daisy didn’t look like Dingo Girl.  I would just have to work harder at it.  Just kidding, Jules!  In Crisis Averted, Jules writes about Daisy’s Homeland Security experience.

• Mrs. Chili at The Blue Door always makes me think, question, and get off my butt to take action. Her Ten Reasons why she’s an outspoken GBLT advocate/ally is a must read. 

• Organic Mama at Life and Times of Organic Mama submitted a post she wrote when her two daughters went away to summer camp in This Thing Called Motherhood.  It’s a great post about being a mom but also being yourself.  I would love for O’Mama to adopt me but she substitutes maple syrup for sugar.  No can do.  I bet she uses real maple syrup, too.  Perhaps, organic maple syrup and not that overly processed, calorie laden, yet sickeningly sweet Mrs. Butterworth deliciousness.

So, those were the entries.  I placed the names in an empty tissue box and with great fanfare (yes, I made my own musical accompaniment) and unnecessary flourish, I drew names.  Organic Mama is going to receive Living Out Loud and Marjolein is going to receive a transatlantic package containing The Guerilla Art Kit.  Send me your addresses ladies, so I can stalk you I can send you your books.  Thanks, Innernetz, for participating!

Happy New Year, Innernetz!

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A Funny Thing Happened On My Way To Class

I love the Best Of lists that come out this time of year.  I get to review the various lists for all the songs I need to know, books I must read, and movies I have to see in order to be one of the cool kidz.  From what I can tell so far, my coolness factor is nil.  I’m so uncool, I’m hot.  Scorching.  I’m the Heat Miser. 

But my students, oh my students.  They definitely deserve their own Best Of list.  This has been a semester of relatives “dying,” emergency surgeries, involuntary mental institution commitments, subway incidents and accidents, and a whole slew of other excuses for why they couldn’t get their papers in on time.  Now, before you get your panties in a bunch thinking that Dingo is cruel and lacks compassion because she mocks these students’ tales of woe, remember one thing:  these students are full of shit.

Without further ado, The Top Three Best Worst Excuses For Not Turning In Papers Fall 2008. 

Winner

Our first entry comes straight from a student we’ll call TMFI.  Yes, that’s TMFI as in Too Much Fucking Information.  She liked to come to my office hours to talk about the new shoes she bought, the dance recital at her community center, that her mom was a SAHM, or even a dinner recipe she wanted to try.  Everything was a source of nonstop chatter and none of it was relevant to the class.  She would sit at my desk and say things like, “Miss, you are a great teacher!  Miss, you are so smart!” — all of this, while true, was a waste of my time. And hers.  She would have been better off getting her nose out of my ass and putting it to the grindstone.

Anyway, TMFI was absent on the day a major paper was due.  I literally bumped into her outside the elevators 10 minutes after class ended.  She was laughing with friends until she saw me. The laughter immediately turned to pouty-lipped dismay.  You see, she had been attacked that morning on her way to school.  Attacked and beaten!  She was just on her way to my office to tell me all. about. it.

I was immediately alarmed but as she began to tell me her tragic tale it didn’t add up.  According to TMFI, she was on her way to school at 8am when she got into an empty subway car.  A black guy came onto the train and, without provocation, began to hit and kick her.  Oh, wait, there was a Hispanic guy sitting nearby but he didn’t help.  No, wait, the Hispanic guy was at the other end of the subway car and didn’t hear or see her being attacked. 

Let’s review the relevant facts, shall we?

Exhibit A: TMFI was on an empty subway car during NYC rush hour.
This is the stuff of NYC commuter fantasies.  If I ever found myself on an empty subway during rush hour, I would swing naked from the ceiling in celebration and shake my booty at all the suckers on the platforms obviously preferring to wait for an overcrowded train.

Exhibit B: The attacker hit and kicked her without provocation and without saying a word during the entire incident.
This is not out of the realm of possibility.  If TMFI began to tell one of her interminable stories, I could see someone being moved to violent action.  I, of the unending patience, have often wished to staple her lips to my desk during one of her office visits.

Exhibit C: While being brutally kicked and beaten, her updo managed to stay perfectly coiffed, her make-up meticulously applied, her silk top and linen pants maintained that fresh from the dry-cleaners feeling, and her skin remained remarkably smooth and free of cuts and scrapes.
Maybe we should call this guy the Gentleman Bandit.  Or maybe he was simply adhering to the 1960s movie thug stereotype of “Hit ‘em where it won’t show.”

Exhibit E: Her attacker didn’t take her Sidekick or iPod.
Who could blame him?  Her iPod was obsolete once the iPhone came out and anyone can pick up a Sidekick on the cheap on Ebay.

Exhibit F:  Although the Gentleman Bandit didn’t steal TMFI’s Sidekick or iPod, he did manage to get steal both the hard copy of her paper and her jump drive; the only place she had her paper saved.
Of course.

Concerned for my lying student’s well-being, I suggested that she call a friend or family member to stay with her for a little while.  She called a friend on her unstolen phone. A tearful and animated conversation ensued.  About halfway through the play by play of her attack, I suggested that the call would probably be more effective if she actually turned the phone on. 

Runner-Up

The subway is apparently a dangerous place for students in my class.  The runner-up Best Worst Excuse is from a student who wasn’t able to turn her paper in because while running to catch the subway, she slipped on ice at the subway station, was knocked unconscious and came to only after class was over.  While she was unconscious, someone stole her paper.

Another Runner-Up

While there were a great many entries in the stoopid category ranging from “I thought this paper was optional” to “I had mono over the weekend,” my favorite was from the student who submitted a paper consisting of a single sentence.  Three weeks later, she emailed me asking why she received an F.  When I told her why, she said she accidentally sent the wrong one.  Hmmm, does this sound familiar to anyone?  I let her resubmit her paper just knowing what was going to happen.  I’m omniscient like that.  And yes, just as in the incident with Patty Plagiarist, this student also plagiarized her entire paper.
This student, however, was less astute at ballsing it out.  When I confronted her with print outs of the various web sites from which she’d plagiarized, she thought she was off the hook.  “But Miss, I didn’t copy from those web sites!  I used different ones!”

And there you have it, Innernetz, The Top Three Best Worst Excuses For Not Turning In Papers Fall 2008.  I am so glad this semester is over.

Speaking of Best Of, don’t forget to enter my giveaway!  All you need to do is leave a comment with a link to a favorite post that you’ve written and you are entered into the drawing.  You can leave it in the original giveaway post or this one.  Just leave a link! The contest ends at midnight TONIGHT!

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And To All, A Good Night

Merry Christmas, Innernetz! I’m not just saying that, I really mean it — MERRY CHRISTMAS!!  And no, I’m not drunk on eggnog or the caustic homemade wine my uncle usually brings to family gatherings that smells like he mashed the grapes with his feet wrapped in rotten cheese and smegma.  I love Christmas.  I love lights, Christmas music, Love Actually, Christmas cookies, everything!  That’s not to say that all my Christmas memories are sugar-coated.  I was not privileged with a perfect childhood (in spite of the fact that I was a perfect child), so my childhood memories are mixed.

I have great memories of making Christmas cookies with The Cougar and wrapping presents. My favorite Christmas memories, however, are of the food baskets The Cougar would make for impoverished families.  You want a Christmas miracle?  It truly was a miracle how many turkeys, canned goods, pampers, boxes of formula, and packages of stuffing she was able to load into our broken down black conversion van with screen painted horses on the side.  Oh yes, Santa may have had his reindeer but we had a herd of wild mustangs. And a cobalt blue shag carpet interior.  The Cougar was a self-proclaimed Meals on Hot Wheels. 

The best thing, and what I didn’t appreciate until later, was that she insisted on being anonymous.  We’d drive around the asscrack of nowhere until The Cougar spotted a house in need of a holiday miracle.  Then, she’d park down the street and we’d sneak up and leave the box on the porch.  If the house had toys in the yard, she knew to put pampers and baby food in the box.  And she was fearless. Barking dogs at the end of long, prison-grade chain link leashes did not deter her.  With a wave of her hand, those slathering, razor sharp jaws would snap shut!  Cesar Milan, you are small potatoes.  The Cougar was thirty years ahead of you.  It wasn’t until many years later that I realized how lucky we were to sneak up on a home in the backwoods of the Land that Time Forgot and not get a face full of buckshot.  Or, even worse, we could have all wound up in some else’s food basket.  I’ve seen a lot of horror movies since then.

I don’t have many good Christmas memories of Jackass I.  He was either bitching about how putting up the Christmas lights was interfering with the football game or complaining that the Christmas music and singing interrupted his nap.  One year he surprised me with a handmade dollhouse.  That’s it.  That’s my best Christmas memory of Jackass I.  Oh, I have other memories.  There’s the time that Jackass II and I were so excited about the gifts that Santa left that we burst into our parent’s bedroom squealing with glee.  Jackass I got out of bed fumbling for his belt to give us a whippin’ for waking him up.  Then there was the time that we kept walking in front of the television while decorating the tree.  When he snapped off the television, Jackass II and I were so excited!  We thought he was going to help us put the ornaments in the places way up high where we couldn’t reach. Instead, he snatched the boxes of ornaments out of our hands and threw them into the trash.  Ahhh, good times.  Too bad The Cougar wasn’t quite as good with jackasses as she was with guard dogs.

That dollhouse was a good memory, but it would eventually be razed by a bad memory.  That dollhouse was around until about 5 years ago.  My nephew would use it as an “apartment” for his Metal Gear and G.I. Joe action figures.  Every now and then one of my niece’s Barbies would be allowed to visit, but it was pretty much a war-hero-only bachelor pad.  You know, where they could kick back after a secret mission and relive blowing off heads and survey the amputated appendages that littered the playroom floor with manly pride.  But Jackass I and Jackass II freaked out.  Fifty grown action figures living in a blue and white house could only mean one thing.  HOMO-SEX-YOU-AL-IT-EE!!  Oh, noes!  It was okay for my nephew to play at blowing up Polly Pockets and Ken (who, admit it, truly is gay) but seat G.I. Joe around the plastic dinner table with some friends, and katy-bar-the-door!  G.I. Joe may as well be playing footsie in an airport men’s room with a hole-saw for making glory holes in his rucksack!  If I remember correctly, that Christmas my nephew got more toy guns and a tank, but the Jackasses threw the dollhouse away.  I understand, though.  Little boys must be made to understand that real men are violent and homeless.  What, is living in your tank curled up with your Uzi not good enough for you?

But here is the thing: the good memories live on.  Even today, after Jackass I has made every effort to drive The Cougar to destitution, she still manages to make what little she has go far and at least once a month fixes dinner for all the servicemen and women in her area that are stationed away from home.  Word of mouth has caused these dinners to blossom to over thirty men and women in uniform who want a home cooked meal away from the base.  And she still goes around and leaves food baskets for the poor because she says as long as there is someone who has less than she has, she will give.

So, yeah, I don’t have only good Christmas memories, just like the rest of you.  But just as G.I. Joe ripped the heads of Polly Pockets and then settled down for a spot of tea in his A-frame townhouse, the good memories grind the bad memories to shreds.  And as long as we all do our best to keep the good memories happening today, the way The Cougar does, the spirit of Christmas lives on.

So, to my mom and my blogger friends and all the other sugarplums who make every day of my life sweet, thank you.  I love you.  You keep Christmas alive and well, and you are my Christmas miracle.

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Thanksgiving in December

Santa’s going to bring me a big lump of coal this year.  A big ol’ lump of coal.  In order to prevent the West Virginia coal miners from having to work overtime this week to bring me my holiday bounty, I’m making good on a promise.  I’m finally getting around to thanking everyone for the awards I’ve received over the past few months.  No, there’s no awards page yet – geez, Innernetz, if I actually thanked everyone and finally put up an awards page, I would be perfect, and you would hate me.  No one likes a perfect girl with an awards page, great tits, and too-white teeth.  Just ask all the Beyoncé haters out there.  Have any of you invited Beyoncé to your holiday parties?  No?  It’s because she has perfect tits, perfect hair, and too-white teeth, right?  Haters.

Way back when the sun used to shine and we all bitched about the heat, Jen at a2eatwrite honored me with the You Make My Day Award. Jen is an excellent cook.  I am glad that I make her day but I would be happier if she’d stop on by and make my dinner.  The recipes she posts look delicious but oh, so hard.  She uses words like “bake” and “pre-heat” as if I’m supposed to know what the hell that means.  I like this award but I think that in passing it on, I’m going to modify it somewhat into the Go Ahead and Make My Day Award.  Oh, come on, you can’t tell me that all this holiday stuff is filling you with peace, love, and good will toward the impending family debacle that is coming your way.  I am passing this award on to Coconut Diaries because I’m sure she has said this to some of the juvenile delinquents students she advises.  She’s in Texas after all, and you just know she’s packin’ heat.

Hotfessional was kind enough to crown me with the Tiara Wearing Blogger Award.  While I appreciate the sentiment, there aren’t enough bobby pins in the world to keep a tiara on my head.  I’d end up looking like Pinhead from the Hellraiser series.  But the fact that she recognized my regalness in spite of the frizzy corona I call hair is greatly appreciated.  I’m passing this award on to Kelley at Magneto Bold Too because not only does she appreciate bling but I am sure that she has the perfect pair of shoes to wear with this stunning head gear.

Marjolein at Wont Let Life Define Me gave me the Arte y Pico Award.  Depending on what translation software you use it could mean, “The Best Art” or “Damn, this salsa is kickin’!” I’m going to go with the art thing.  There’s no question about it, this award goes to Stoogepie.  His comics are outstanding and his social and political satire is not for the faint of heart.  I’m passing this on to him knowing full well that under his care this poor winged lady will end up half-naked and dancing on a stripper pole. 

The next award was the Butterfly Award for the Coolest Blog I Know from Tara at If Mom Says Okay. It’s no coincidence that her avatar is Scarlett O’Hara.  Tara is every inch a lady but she’s also a steel magnolia.  No, not the wussy Julia Roberts and Sally Field kind.  Tara is the don’t-fuck-with-me-or-mine-unless-you-want-me-to-tear-your-spleen-out-through-your-nasal-cavity kind.  And then she’ll make a dress from the living room curtains to wear to your funeral.  In other words, she’s my kind a gal!  I have to pass this award onto Lesley at JustRunJustLiveJustBe because when I thought I couldn’t run anymore, she helped me fly — or at least continue at a slow trot.  She’s got a lot going on in her head and in her life right now and I hope she is getting the same encouragement and support that she gave me. 

Finally, we come to Melinda Zook at Zook Light who gave me the Sparky Blogger Award for sparking creativity, conversation, controversy, and friendship.  This was the hardest award to bestow because I think all the blogs I read fit this category or else I wouldn’t read them — Duh!  So, I’m going to give this to award to Flurrious because her comment responses are just as funny as her posts and I think it would be fun to call her Sparky, Kori at See Kori Rant because she’s amazing in so many ways, and Mrs. Chili at A Teacher’s Education because her creativity and dedication to education make her an excellent teacher.  Mrs. Chili’s compassion and passion for social justice gets me riled up and moved to action and she doesn’t correct my grammar and punctuation when I leave long, rambling comments at 4am.

Whew!  That was hard.  I don’t like to single out blogs for awards because I love each of the blogs I read.  I also have flashbacks to high school when awards were given out and I didn’t get one.  I mean, I got awards but who really wants Most Likely to Succeed when Most Likely to Sleep Her Way to the Top and Perfect Attendance at All Keg Parties were on the table?  At least as an adult I’m faring much better.  BrazenBareToe hosted a contest and I won!  Well, I won third place but I got cool stuff.  I got a pair of warm wool socks (I’m wearing them right now!), a cute pair of black and white stripped toe socks (you know, the kind that fit like gloves but for your feet), candles, bubble bath, chocolate covered pecans, and a reusable nylon grocery bag (now I can look like all the other hipsters when I shop for veggies that will rot in my fridge).  I also got a spork. Yes, a spork. Don’t laugh.  You know you wish you had one too.

And because I’m also a giver and not only a taker, I’m having a giveaway.  I know, it’s too late for you to receive these and re-gift them but I wouldn’t be Dingo if I weren’t always one step behind.  Anyway, I’m all about being creative and changing the world in the process (and really, aren’t we all?  Isn’t that why we blog, even if to only change our small portion of the world?). I have copies of The Guerrilla Art Kit and Living Out Loud:  Activities to Fuel a Creative Life to give away.  Don’t be freaked out by the words “art” and “creative.” I mean, it’s not like I said “bake” and “pre-heat.” The activities in these books are fun and so easy even Picasso could do them!  I actually want to keep these books myself but I’m feeling bad because I already ate the Gourmet Garbage that I was going to give away.  I ate it right out of the jar.  It was yummy. 

Since this post is all about bloggers and blogging, to be entered into the drawing for these books leave a comment linking to one of your favorite posts that you’vewritten.  I will send one book to each winner.  The contest runs until December 29th.  I’ll announce the winners on December 30th.  So, get going!  Linky-linky!

Update because I’m a Moron:  The contest ends December 29th NOT January 29th.  I’ll announce the winners on December 30th.  I’ve corrected the dates in the post above.  So, you have less time than you thought to win the coveted books.  Get to linking!

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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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