Oh boy. So herein lies the dilemma. If I get up and walk away the professor is going to think he's an epic failure. And I mean epic. Not in the "I'm bad at teaching way," but in the head down, shameful, cringe, disgraceful way. How can a man not be a fail if he has no comical delivery ability. Did I just compare comic relief to a science? Comicology.
Anyways, his lifetime achievement in academic presentation will be shattered. Knowledgeable he is. Anybody with half a brain and a doctorate or graduate degree is knowledgeable. But delivery. Presentation. Attention grabbing wit. That's the challenge. Except for potentially attractive Barbies with quarter-brains. So yes, me walking out would not be good for his ego.
And I'm a nice person. I have compassion. I have a swagger.
On the other hand, if I sit here, immobile, I'll be left with the worst rash of my life. I can already tell. This isn't your ordinary Tuesday post-practice jock discomfort. This is that I should have done my laundry today, or yesterday, or sometime in the past month.
Option number three. Continue to try and squeeze the midline of these Michael Jordan endorsed Hanes boxers® from out the valley. I could let Ellie watch me dig myself into a deep hole. I'll never get out. A crater. It's like being stuck on the moon. Mission to the Moon. Help me get back home!
Listen to those rails a-thrumming (All Aboard!)
My leg starts to shake. Ansy, they call this. Old people call it an overactive bladder. But mine is dry. Empty. I went before class like Mrs. Deutsche taught me in the third grade. This lesson came right between shaking the pen to get the ink flowing and tucking the loop of the tail under the line on the "Y". And she always made sure I dotted my eye.
Italicized lyrics in the above piece come from two sources:
- Eiffel 65 - Blue
- Duke Ellington - Take the A train
The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.
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