I can talk about this now

One of the times I went to college (the 2^nd time of 3), I took the prerequisite English class I had tested into.  Incidentally, the awkward form of the opening sentence should serve as a clue to both where I placed and how I did in the class.  I probably should have written something like “One time, in English class …”

It was a composition class so the idea was we had to write stuff.  There were going to be 4 types of composition.  I don’t exactly remember the names of them but I think there was an informative one.  I remember writing about MS-DOS.  I think I got an ‘A’ on that paper.  There was to be a couple of papers where you basically pick a fight, and one that was supposed to be persuasive.  Finally, there was a team paper.  We wrote ours on why televisions should have “V-chips”.  Thrilling stuff. 

The Professor considered himself a very amazing fellow.  He wore a bow tie and had those dark elbow cover things on his brown blazer deal. 

The first thing he tried to get across to us was that great writing was the goal.  He didn’t care if the content was misguided as long as the art itself was sound or some such bullshit.

He spent lots of time explaining that if he suspected we were writing opinions just to line up with his own, it would not go well for us.  If however, we could somehow articulate the contents of our unrefined little souls with a certain degree of skill, boy howdy.

So of course, the first thing everybody (except me) did was try to figure out his opinions and write the opposite.  They didn’t understand that if you disagreed with him, you had to write well.  Silly students.

These lectures about not trying to please him with content went on for – well at least until I was gently prodded awake by Julie.  I was in love with Julie.  I was separated from my first wife and Julie was engaged and had no clue I was in love with her.  But I’m pretty sure she was into me.  The best part about it was that Julie had long dark hair.  My future ex-wife was only jealous of blondes, so.

“Did I miss anything?”  I asked suggestively.

“Besides the drool running down the side of your chin?” said Julie, obviously captivated by my sleepy bedroom eyes.

“Yeah – I mean, did he get past not writing to please him,” I explained, subtly flexing my muscles inside my nice cozy parka as I gracefully wiped my face dry.

“Next lecture.  He’s going to talk about the forbidden 3 topics,” she trailed off, distracted by my biceps.

“What? like the joy of incest or something,” oops, must have touched a nerve.

“Ewww.  Are you going to show me how to send email or not,” She flirted.

“Oh yeah, probably your place will work best,” I suggested, perhaps revealing my hand a bit too much.

“Except I don’t have a computer, it’s 1993, not 2010, and the computer lab is right downstairs.  And my boyfriend will kick your ass.”

“But the computer lab in this building sucks.  Let’s go to Durham.  And seriously, let me carry your bag.”

“You’re such a creep,” she assured me.

So anyway, it ended with Julie a few months later and before it actually started because of my good conservative friend who did not know my wife, but thought it was wrong for me to be traipsing around with Julie even though I was separated.  He told her I was happily married.  I never saw her again.  Thanks Kevin. 

To his credit, once he did actually get to know my ex, he apologized for messing it up between me and Julie.  Good Friend.

So where was I?  Oh yeah.  The next week of English class was about the “Forbidden Three” topics.  The class was 75 minutes long twice a week.  The gist of the message was “Don’t write about Abortion, Gun Control or the Death Penalty.”

To me, that’s a 5 second lecture, not a two part 2.5 hour lecture.  But he really wanted to be quite clear that he did not want to read any more papers on those three topics and the topics were Abortion, Gun Control and The Death Penalty. 

“If you are thinking in your little brains that you are going to come up with some new interesting shocking argument either for or against one of these topics, then you are most certainly yada yada yada ...”

“What about, um - can we talk about adoption,” my Charlie McCarthy doll innocently asked. 

“Hinsley.  Get that THING out of here if you can’t keep it quiet.”

“Sorry teach, won’t happen again,” I lied.

 My Charlie McCarthy Doll had been my faithful companion since the split with my ex-wife.  But lately he’d become a little bit of a nuisance.  I was starting to wonder if things weren’t getting a little out of hand.  Like the time I woke from a nap to find him standing over me, holding a knife.

“Charlie, what’s this?”

 

“Oh you’re awake.  Good.  I uh just came in to ask you if you’d like a cheese sandwich.  That’s why I’m holding a knife, see?  To, uh, cut the cheese!  Hardy har har!”

“No thanks Charlie.  Where’s your shoe?”

“Gone,” he said, “Just gone.”

So.  Sorry.  Back to English class.  Did I mention that my mind would often wander in English class.  Just reliving it is having the same effect on this post.  Weird. 

“So are we all clear on what are the 3 things we cannot write about in this class?”

Under his breath, Charlie leans to me “About which we should not …, ouch! Not the ribs Hinsley!  Jeez.”

“Problem Hinsley?”

“It’s pronounced Hinsley.  And no.  All under control Dr. Smith,” I lied.

“I have a question.  Ouch,”  Charlie blurted out.  Oh my god, this little guy is really getting me in some hot water. 

“Actually, I’d like to hear this.  Class?  Wouldn’t you all like to hear Charlie’s question?”  The professor encouraged.

“I really don’t think …”

“Shh, let’s hear Charlie’s question.  I’ve spent the better part of 2 hours explaining the 3 things I don’t want to read and somehow, this Dummy has a question.”

“Oh professor, He really doesn’t like to be called …”

“So.  Dummy.  What is your Smart ass question?”

“Uh,  ahem.  Yes.  Well first of all, Hinsley looks a little thirsty don’t you think?  Is it ok if he drinks a glass of water while I ask my question?”

See that was Charlie’s trick.  He knew I couldn’t stop him if I was drinking water.

Hang on there’s a phone call.  Caller ID says “Washington DC”  Oh um that was Mitt Romney. He asked if it was ok if he entered my home.  Who am I to say no?

Anyway where was I?  Oh yeah, so  I pull a big glass of water from my book bag and listen helplessly as Charlie asks, “Can we write about stuff that rhymes with these things?  Because I have very strong opinions about Schmun Schmontrol …”

Hang on that must be Mitt Romney at the door …

“I wonder if I might talk to you about joining my fight …”

Chomp. Crunch. Bleed.  Transform into undead. Damn.