This professor found his usual seat.
V. Shnodgrate was writing something on that large board, and that’s when I ventured a question.
I shouldn’t have said it quite like that, but I did. And, you know, this professor doesn’t think it was necessarily my fault. For instance, everyone calls him that–on this PL blog, that is–so I can’t really be blamed.
Shnodgrate spun around. “What?!”
“Mr. Shnodgrate…I was wondering…well, see here…well, for instance…well…look here, that stick you’re holding is rather nice. What wood is it made from?”
“A special wood,” Shnodgrate said as he turned and began to write on the board again.
(He uses his stick to point to things on the board, you know.)
“The wood must be harvested at midnight on a full moon,” Shnodgrate continued. “That way, the wood will never crack.”
Now this is a wonder. You see, this is exactly what Painting Pundit had suggested, and it was quite right.
“Today,” Shnodgrate began, “we will have a lecture… We must speak about bad poetry. That way, we can learn what good poetry is. Good poetry is not defined by how…”
And that’s when Amelia passed me a note:
He’s not a very good teacher, is he?
Now this professor knows (all professors do, really) that note passing isn’t something that should be done in class.
And, so, that’s why I handed the note to Schwarz, who promptly interrupted Shnodgrate and read it aloud.
“Okay,” Schwarz said, “he’s not a very good teacher, is he?”
Shnodgrate stopped. “Who isn’t?”
“I guess you, chickit!”
Shnodgrate shook his head. “The first exam…you all automatically get an F.”
Poetry class is vexing, you see.