Mistake-d

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So, the professor was in a bookstore.

bookstore3

And I was wearing jeans, a sports coat, and red shoes. (That’s important.)

Also, my eyes were shielded from the blinding book lights, by great sunglasses. #cool

All in all, I was in spy-mode.

Now, the funny thing was this: A chap came half walking, half sprinting towards me. His goal: the restroom. And he was wearing jeans and red shoes, too! (Boogie-wu.)

Amazing. I didn’t dwell on it, though.

See, I was looking about. From book to book.

Picking one up, then throwing it away just as quickly as I had picked it up–if it didn’t suit my fancy, which many didn’t.

I was getting into the process, too, when I was approached by a disgruntled older man.

“What’s the idea?!” he hollered in my face, swinging a book back and forth.

“Excuse me a few hundred times?” How dare he?

“You think slop like this is acceptable?!”

And he threw a book down on the table:

7169335._UY200_

“Ohhhh…” I said.

“Yeah!” he stormed. “Exactly. How dare you! Jane Austen wasn’t respected in her day, and she sure is [bleep] respected now, is she? How dare you!”

I was quite shocked, I must admit.

A male Jane Austen fan? Wonder of wonders!!

“Look here,” I said, “I’m surprised you like JA. But you’ll be pleased to learn this fact: I didn’t write that book.”

And I nodded a few times.

His face grew redder.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“You mean because you read Jane Austen? No need to feel that way.”

“Let me make myself clear–“

“Please,” I interrupted, “’cause you’re sorta cloudy at the minute.”

Glare.

“How dare you carry this book in your store! It’s idiot small business owners, like yourself, who let this kinda thing happen!”

“I’m the owner?”

That caught him for a second. He paused, even.

“The woman at the front said I’d find you back here… You and your horribly, ugly red shoes. That’s what she said.”

I just stared at him; he stared at me, still glowering.

Owner? Wow. I could play with this.

But then, the chap who came sprinting to the restrooms earlier came out of the restroom. I looked at his red shoes, then understood.

“He’s the chap you want,” I said.

And I made my getaway.

Moral: Don’t wear red shoes when the owner of a bookstore is wearing red shoes.

Lesson: Not learned

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Professor Oppression

professor speaks

So, professors get oppressed, too, you know. I think I’ve had to answer about a million messages with regards to gray beards and such. It’s probably a lie, I tell you. Then again, this might not be me. But one of my minions.

Happy national wine day, too.

Dock 10

Watch out for the man that airs his opinions as facts; if he does that, pretty soon, he’ll believe it.

V. Shnodgrate, Renowned PL Poet

UntitledSo, we landed without any more issues.

I mean, this professor got to nap.

The burly chap and the lady stayed pretty much to themselves.

Capital, I say. Quite capital.

Anyways and some, once the plane landed we waited around in the plane, smashed together–without any air, mind–like beetles in a beetle paste, until the ramp was up and rocking out.

Beetle paste is made with these chaps, I bet.

Beetle paste is made with these chaps, I bet.

Now, here’s the thing about the professor: I travel light. So light, in fact, you probably wouldn’t think I was traveling if you saw me about.

I had a pack.

And that’s it.

Army-Backpack-Rucksack

My pack, see. Who knows what I put in there.

Where was I?

Oh yes, the ramp.

Once off the ramp, I was free.

At least, it felt that way.

At first.

See, I had arrived at Space Dock Morchester. One of the busiest Space Docks in the land.

People were everywhere. Screaming, shouting, talking, laughing, crying, dying (medics were with them, I promise), and sleeping on benches and chairs.

It was something to behold.

Bags and suitcases were everywhere, too.

“Look there,” said one chap who was passing by with his wife. He was pointing to a red bag off by its own in the corner, near the restroom.

“What about it?” she said.

“A bomb, I bet.”

“Not a chance,” she said. “Remember the first rule? Never put bombs in a red bag. Everyone sees red. How many years did we work in the business and you still don’t get the basics?!”

Rats and a Heifer! What a thingy.

Busy, like this.

Busy, like this.

As a rule–and this professor doesn’t make too many rules, usually–Space Docks are full of violent people. I mean, it figures out, if you figure it.

Figure: People from all over TPL put together, and then, add people from the whole Honi Galaxy. Yup. A recipe for something to burn,  I say.

So, this professor went off, searching for my dock.

“This way, this way!” shouted one woman in a uniform. “If you’re heading for dock 5!”

I wasn’t, of course.

The professor was heading to dock 10. And no one had anything to say about it.

Thus, I slugged on, like a slug, through the crowd, always being sure to watch that I didn’t get thieved from. Never know when that might happen. #AlwaysWatchful #AlwaysCareful Professorish Mantra, right there.

Then I heard him:

“Oh my. Look who it is.”

I spun around.

Leaning against a fake island tree was Mr. Daniel H, the kids writer.

I approached, cautiously.

“Hello,” I said.

“Bet you didn’t expect to see me,” he said.

“Not at all, really,” I answered. “And you wouldn’t know the way to dock 10, would you?”

Daniel shook his head. “No, I’m heading for dock 3. I have a book to publish. I don’t know why, but my publishers moved to another planet. That’s not fair. Not fair at all.” Then he squeaked. He does that from time to time.

And that’s when the professor saw the sign for dock 10.

I also saw another thing, which was way scarier and gave me the shudder:

Manly-Man, wearing a pilot’s uniform, was seemingly heading towards dock 10, too.

dadblameit

PL Symbol

Attacked & Counterattack

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So, the professor gets attacked sometimes.

This is one such story, see.

I was sitting at a table, minding my own business.

Professorish business, see. I was probably doodling. That’s what I do when I’m rather bored, and I get rather bored sitting at this table sometimes.

People were talking all about me and whatnot. I zoned out.

To the doodling world.

No, I can't doodle like this, I fear.

No, I can’t doodle like this, I fear.

I think I was drawling some sort of square when it happened:

An older chap and his wife sat down across from me.

Professor’s thoughts at the moment: Oh no. I’m in trouble. Gotta eject. But there was no eject button, see.

I thought about making a run for it.

No, too many people about.

I thought about making an excuse.

But it was too late.

They spoke too quickly.

“Hey,” the fellow said.

I gave him the professor stare. I’ve been told it could crumple steel. #Power

Didn’t seem to work.

“We have a question for you,” the wife said. With a giggle.

Make that two giggles.

“Do you like older women?” she blurted out.

Now, this professor being the sly fox he is…

Me.

Me.

…knew exactly where this was going.

And I didn’t want any of it, see. Girlfriends are trouble, double-see.

So, I decided to get mean.

I’m mean sometimes, you know.

Sometimes so mean I even scare myself.

Me being filthy mean.

Me being filthy mean.

“Why?” I began. “You two aren’t getting a divorce, are you?”

You know, the fellow had to be taking a sip from his coffee at the exact moment I said that, didn’t he?

Dadblameit.

He sorta spit it out.

On me.

I was even crankier.

“Oh no we’re not!” the woman said. “Why would we be doing that?”

“Not sure,” I said. “Could be many reasons. So many reasons, in fact. Some reasons, even, I don’t want to have thinks on. But I’ll tell you this…”

And the professor looked at the woman.

“…if you do decide to get a divorce, you can do better than me, though. I’m a horrid orc. So, even though you are older than me–way older–that wouldn’t be the problem, see. We’re just not right for each other.”

That fetched them.

The fellow: “You disgusting little…”

The woman: “How could you…?!”

I went back to doodling.

The woman: “You know, I always thought you were so…so…sweet, too.”

“Check it out,” I said, looking up, “I think someone way over there–so far over there, in fact, that we won’t be able to see each other if you go–wants to have speaks with you. Quickly, don’t disappoint.”

They both rose.

Yes! #ProfessorWins

“Well,” the fellow said, “this isn’t the end of this story. We’ll need to report this, you know. We were going to say our niece–who might be older than you–would make you a great girlfriend. Glad we didn’t, though. There’s something wrong with you.”

And they left.

Moral: Don’t do such things in a Bible Study.

Lesson: Not Learned

Oranges are orange; Yellows are…

professor speaks

Okay.

So, there’s this problem, see.

And I can’t understand it for the life of me, double-see.

You must help me out, PF.

Here it is.

I present to you the color orange:

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And, here’s an orange:

tumblr_lfpoa8GIdg1qc700b

Further, I present the color yellow:

images-1

Lemon-Whole-Split

And that, my fellows, right up there, is a yellow, right? No!

See, it’s a lemon not a yellow.

Where’s the sense in that, I ask?

Where?!

It leaves me bewildered and confused, in truth.

What will aliens think when they get to earth and learn of such things?

Dadblameit.


TPL Schedule

Sunday: OFF — Day of Shalt Nots

Monday: OFF — All Day Sleep Does

Tuesday: TPL Story

Wednesday: Professor Speaks

Thursday: #RealLife

Friday: Maybe a Post

Saturday: OFF — Chickens Need Fed

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