(Fevered Mutterings v2.0: September 2006)
…..
Sir, I’ve finished the story you set for me.
That’s the single most stupid thing I’ve heard this week, and this week has been a veritable Ardennes of stupidity. You haven’t “finished” it. You’ve merely stopped working on it. It will never be finished, and that is the sickening tragedy of it all. Give it a week, and it will turn your stomach, much the same way that it will turn mine when I force myself through it this evening.
Sir, what do you think I’ll be when I grow up?
Older. Also apathetic, bitter, disillusioned, the usual. Watch some French cinema, that’ll put you in the right frame of mind.
Sir, can u speak txt?
It’s not a real language. 1,000 lines: “I will endeavour to wield the Queen’s English at every opportunity, as is my moral responsibility.” No, make it 5,000, I don’t like the way you carry yourself.
Sir, my computer isn’t working properly – I can’t see the flashing cursor when I type, it’s confusing.
You think you’ve got it bad, you really do, don’t you? I can only dream of being as shambolically ignorant as you. When I first began using computers, they started with a shovelful of manure and a hand-crank. I suggest typing everything without looking at the screen and then editing it all later. It’ll hone your dexterity. You can stay behind after class to do it, although I’l have to lock you in, I’m going to a meeting and then out for dinner. If that’s not acceptable, use a piece of BluTac and move it along as you type.
Mike, we need someone to supervise the 2nd-year football – it’s only a one-off.
Get someone else. Football is a crucible in which money, intelligence and wit are melted into a useless nondescript slag of squandered energy. That’s “no”, just in case you play a lot of football.
Sir, do you like my poem?
I don’t like any poems. But let us imagine a fantastical world in which by some arcane conjunction of improbabilities I actually did enjoy poetry……….yes, I still wouldn’t like your poem. I’d say ‘try harder’, but then you would, and I’d feel guilty.
Sir, what’s an idiom?
It’s a peculiarity of phraseology approved by usage often having a meaning other than its logical or grammatical one, of course. Now, everyone in the class each give me 50 examples. No – different examples. Nobody leaves until I have them.
Mike, we need someone to sit in on a detention.
What am I, a prison warden? Don’t answer that, as you probably have a point. But no, as tempting as it is to watch some fatuous, recidivistic little cretin squirm under the yoke of justice, I’m busy, doing….absolutely anything else I can think of in time.
Sir, what’s the single most inspiring thing that you’ve ever heard?
Puppies barking in the fields, the sound of one hand clapping, running water and the laughter of little urchin children. Is that close? Because you coudn’t handle the truth, you little short-trousered beatnik drawn ever onward by the bogus carrot of self-improvement. The only things worth learning are born in ways you cannot express through language, which is why I love teaching English so much. 10,000 lines: “I should endeavour to distrust upbeat platitudes and associated pontificating self-helpery”. Make it 20,000, in honour of my inevitable ulcer.
Mike, we all feel like you’re not happy here.
I’m happy here as anywhere. And for the record, I know people, powerful people. Removing me will be like trying to lever up a limpet with an egg. You’re stuck with me and my ‘not-happy’-ness for as long as I decide, which right now is open-ended. I enjoy leaving at the end of the day so much that it’s almost worth turning up. No – I like it here.
Sir – do you think I could be a writer?
It’s possible. But only if you start…..RIGHT NOW! No? I see you’re still not trying, and now it’s just too late, you don’t have enough time left to do it properly. It’s possible you might hack out a career as a blogger instead: if that’s your choice, I wouldn’t worry about having any time left to learn. Unlearn, maybe, yes. In fact, start unlearning now, before it’s too late…..nope, you blew it again. Close the door behind you, please.
