The WORST Thing in the World…!

Okay.

Let’s be honest for a split second. (Not that I’m not honest for every other second, mind.)

What is the worst thing ever?

You might be tempted to say: Why, the worst thing ever is when a baby lizard is brutally murdered by a snapping turtle who feels encroached upon after eating a hearty breakfast and laying in the sun to aid in the digestion process, which is quite finicky to say the least.

This is true, yes, but you’d be wrong.

That’s second.

The first worst thing is getting up early.

Very early.

Like 4am early.

That’s bad.

So, so dadblame bad.

It goes like this:

The alarm rings and you shut it off. After all, how dare it wake you up?!

Alarm clocks don’t look this nice.

It rings 20 minutes later. Well, it was supposed to ring 20 minutes later, but you’re pretty sure it’s only 5. (Imagine a clock that can’t keep time. What’s this world coming to?)

You crank your head up and stare at the clock. It stares back at you.

“Look here,” you try to reason with it, “I don’t really care if I’m late even though I know I have to be there. After all, sleep is more important than anything else…CAN’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?!“

The clock shrugs and moves forward a minute.

“Dadblameit, you slug!” you nearly scream. “I need some understanding!”

The insult must make it mad, ’cause it moves 2 whole minutes forward.

“Don’t…please…”

What else is there but to beg now?

Tears begin to flow.

Another minute.

“Fine then, you absurd box with red lights, I’m up!”

And thus begins a day.

It’s an early day.

And you’ve already been ticked off (see what I did there) by your clock.

Btdubs, this is a true story.

Moral: I haven’t thought one up yet.

Girls Can’t Bow

So, I won’t lie.

I never do, you know.

Well, that’s not true.

See, sometimes I lie, other times I don’t. It’s a consternation, but it can’t be helped.

That’s why I always say: “I lie every other day.”

Anyways, I must tell you something that’s rather hurtful, and I def can’t lie about it.

Here it is:

Girls can’t bow.

That’s not to say they don’t want to, but it’s just an impossibility. What happens when they try isn’t a bow, see. We can’t go redefining words, after all. (For example, you wouldn’t call a crocodile a lizard if he was stunted in the growth department, would you? Of course not. Likewise, we can’t call a not-bow a bow.)

What's the difference between a bow a bough and a bow? Never mind. That's neither here nor over there.

So, to back up my hypothesis, I must now needs present proof. (All good professor do such things, see. And I’m a good professor, double-see.)

What better way to prove a point than using our dear friend Mr. Google.

Here’s what I found after a quick google; I scanned nearly 642,000 results, btdubs.

And these images were the best that the ladies had to offer.

Proof #1

I mean, this is so far from a bow that I win right away. No problem; no battle; no skin from my lobes.

Proof #2 & #3

A hand spin is not bowing.

Proof #4

This one was closest to a bow…but for a bow to be legit, you really can’t speak and bow at the same time. Therefore, I win.

And I didn’t tell a lie.

And girls can’t bow.

And that’s the end.

Mistake-d

So, the professor was in a bookstore.

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:

“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

Attacked & Counterattack

 

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.

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.

…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.

“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