Sometimes the professor actually forgets he’s the professor. In truth, this is true. I wouldn’t lie. (Don’t believe V. Shnodgrate for a second.)
When this happens, I merely have to look at my ring, and all misgivings and doubts are quickly and effectively assuaged.
Of course, I am quite attached to my ring and, when I wear it, it’s quite attached to me.
Now, if you ever are unlucky enough to meet the professor face-to-face, you probably wouldn’t recognize him. You see, professors have been stereotyped to an awful extent. We won’t go into that now. That’s a different subject for another time.
But, anyway, the professor wears the proof of who he is on his finger—usually. This is how you would know the professor is the professor. And this is how the professor knows he’s the professor.
I’d like to share a quick incident that befell the professor just recently. You do not want to behave like this sorry fellow did, for sure.
I was standing comfortably by a fountain, thinking about how Bob would enjoy a Mark Twain book if only he’d give it a chance, when I was set upon brutally.
A slim, slight, disgrace of a human being sauntered over to me, wearing a wicked smirk.
He pointed at my ring, and said, quite miserably, “What’s that for?”
“That,” I replied, preparing every defense for a possible attack, “is of great importance to me. You see, it helps me immensely.”
“Rings aren’t for men.”
“Oh really? Is that your own warped opinion? Or did someone plant that idea in your scrawny little head just so you could make a fool of yourself?”
The thing smirked even more. “I mean, rings that have writing on them aren’t for men. What does yours say?”
“My ring,” I replied, “serves a practical purpose. You see, it helps me remember who I am.”
“Let me see what it says.”
I held the ring up for the thing’s inspection.
His reply informed me that what I had just told him had inexplicably passed over his head.
The thing looked up suddenly. “Why would you want to walk around with his name on your ring?”
I think I may have said ‘Malediction’ before retreating. Luckily, he called off his attack and withdrew as well; for had he followed me, I think I would have bashed his head in with…something…anything…
It was depressing. But I shan’t dwell on it. Here’s a picture that’s both disconcerting and enjoyable:
I thought it a beautiful picture. But the man in the clouds obviously was disturbed by something…