Archive for the 'TPL Story' Category

The Professor & Yoga

I’ll be quite honest, the sudden: This professor has had trouble separating Yoga and Yoda.

And I’m not sure why.

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After all, the similarities end at the names. I mean, could you really see Yoda making these sort of moves?

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Is this a guy or girl, do you suppose?

Yeah, me neither. And this brings us to a great fact of life: Yoda is the most un-agile creature ever–unless he’s fighting Count Dooku.

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But anyways, in order to stop equating yoga and Yoda, this professor stepped into a a Yoda place the other day. I mean yoga.

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It was a mistake.

There was a woman in the oddest position ever, stretched out on a mat. But even though she was seemingly tied up in a not, she was up and facing me in less than a second.

In fact, it was so fast, I wasn’t able to respond to her question.

I was still in shock, see.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

She just stood there smiling.

Eventually: “Yes, you see, what’s the principle difference between Yoga and Yoda?”

It was a bad first question, I admit.

She laughed a bit. “Are you looking to get into Yoga?”

Then I got my professorish momentum back. “Oh no,” I said, beginning to walk about  the place.

See, never stand straight without moving. This allows the other person the upper-hand. If you’re constantly moving about, the other person is immediately put on the defense. Since they have to follow you about and speak to you at the same time.

That’s a hard thing to do. Especially for girls.

Sure enough, she started to follow me about. I was also spying while walking. Good time to spy.

“Then…” She seemed confused. “Can I help you?”

“Not at all, you know,” I said. “I just wanted to see if anyone actually did Yoga.”

I looked about the empty room.

“The class is in a few hours.”

“How many guys do it?”

She was perplexed. “A…few?”

“How many professors?”

“What?”

“Good day, madam.”

I was able to keep the attacker off-balance and spy at the same time.

It was a good day.

Conclusion: Both Yoda and Yoga share another similarity; the force is a part of both, and will end up destroying both. 

The Meeting: Blood Transfusions

My name tag said “Darnell Thomas” and I didn’t mind.

This is unusual.

Usually, this professor likes his name best.

But there was some sort of ring to Darnell Thomas. (Could also stand for Defensive Tackle.)

FOXBORO, MA - NOVEMBER 14: Defensive tackle Vince Wilfork #75 of the New England Patriots watches the game against the Buffalo Bills at Gillette Stadium on November 14, 2004 in Foxboro, Massachusetts. The Patriots defeated the Bills 29-6. (Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images)

Mr. Vince W. DT.

Anyways and some, I had snuck into some sort of conference and I was going to make the most of it.

I found a seat and sat, quicker than melting lava.

And what luck: as soon as I had sat, the meeting began.

An old woman–with flaming green hair–she must dye it, see–stood behind the podium, and started having speaks.

“Welcome everyone,” she said.

She spoke softly, but there was a scary tone in her voice.

In other words, if this professor was down an alleyway, and she was there, I’d run.

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“First order of business,” she continued, “is this: We shall find out what blood type you are, then we will effectively start the transfusions.”

She stepped down from the podium, and this professor broke out into a sweat.

Transfusions? That was ghastly, scary, and horrid.

And at that minute, the real Darnell Thomas came in. He was carrying a Chihuahua.

(Okay, time out for a minute. ‘Chihuahua’ is not worth the trouble it takes to spell it. Dadblameit!)

Now, I knew it was Darnell Thomas because he was being chased by security. As soon as he came running in, I jumped up.

The Chihuahua bounded out of his arms and jumped on me, ripping at me with his sharp teeth.

AngryDog

I yelled “enough!” twice, but he didn’t seem to mind. Then I found out ‘he’ was a ‘she’ and it was even worse.

Darnell Thomas–the real one–was coming for me, but the security got him, and the dog, and dragged them out.

Probably to jail.

“Sorry for that, Mr. Thomas,” said the green-haired woman, who was, the sudden, standing next to me. “Will you give your announcement now?”

So I strode up to the podium, and said:

“I don’t think we should do anymore blood transfusions. Look what happened to the Incas.”

And I left.

[NOTE: It turns out, my line of reasoning with regards to the Incas and blood transfusions is quite flawed. See, the Incas actually had great success performing blood transfusions, way before blood types were even studied. This is because the Inca population had only two different blood types: A and O. Therefore, they did rather well at the practice. Of course, I’m sure the green-haired lady, or anyone else at the meeting, didn’t catch my mistake.]

At the Bakery

So, I like cookies a bit.

You know?

Especially cherry cookies.

Wait. I lie.

I’ve never had a cherry cookie, have you?

Exactly right! They don’t exist. Or, at least, they seem not to.

Professor’s Newest Theory: Cherry Cookies do not exist.

So, I tested the theory and went into a local bakery.

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Now, I must say the bakery was rather full. And packed. And busy. It was rather full, see.

“Excuse me!” I shouted over the din.

No answer for a little bits.

“Excuse me a few times!”

You’d be surprised, but that worked. The people in front of me turned around, and I got to the front.

A fat woman was at the register.

“What would you like?” she asked, grabbing that little plastic paper thingy they have to use to grab cookies with.

“I’d like–” I began, but she cut me off.

“A lemon custard cookie? Sure thing.”

And faster than a rabbit on drugs, faster than Muhammed on the back of an ass, faster than Brock Lesnar…

4281218-6083399682-Brock

Brock Lesnar

…faster than ever, she grabbed a lemon custard cookie and handed it to me.

“Very nice,” I said, pushing her hand and the cookie aside, “but I wasn’t looking for that.”

Her face fell. “What? What do you want, then?”

“I’ll take…” I’d quite forgotten what I came in for, the sudden.

“Hey, buddy,” a voice said behind me. “Hurry up, I want a cookie.”

I did the only decent thing one can do in such a situation: I took the lemon custard cookie from the woman and gave it to him.

“Now, see here,” I said to the lady, “do you have cherry cookies?”

And she gave me one.

I was astounded.

PF, cherry cookies exist.

Let’s have a dance to celebrate.

Just Walk In

So, I walked right in.

Yes, the professor does that sort of thing.

See, if I’m ever about, I might just walk right in. Right in your house; right in your car; right in your window.

That’s how I am.

It’s a bit of a fault, and could end up getting me in trouble one day.

But since the professor is always in trouble, I don’t worry about it too muchly much.

Anyways, I walked right in.

The door was open, after all. And you know the thingy: If the door is open, it’s an invite.

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I probably wouldn’t walk through this door, would you?

Now, Princess Greta was in there. It was a huge palace of sorts, I should add.

And her mother was with her, or grandmother. She was old, in truth. With many creases and tarnishes.

As soon as my shoe made a clank on the floor, the grandmother called out:

“You?! Who are you?! Huh?!”

“I’m the one you rarely want to see, but that you usually do.”

I thought that was a good answer.

Greta just blushed. She does that sort of thing. Probably because the grandmother was a bit embarrassing.

Rats and a Heifer.

I walked over to them and stopped. Now was the time to say something nice. So I said:

“You two look very nice, and I only say that ’cause I’m trying to make you feel good, though why I want to do that, I’m not sure.”

The grandmother raised a finger. “I know you! Don’t I?!”

“I’m unsure, the sudden,” I answered. “But I know you… You’re Greta’s grandmother.”

I felt good; I felt righteous. After all, that shut her up, and it proved I knew her and that I belonged in the house.

She looked straight at me. “I’m her mother.”

Moral: Don’t jump to conclusions that make sense.

 

At a Wedding

It’s been said:

“…the professor is heartless, which means: he doesn’t have a heart; which means: he’s not romantic…”

Now that is a truth right there, don’t you know, PF. A strong one.

Do you believe? *professorish eye*

Anyways and a few, I was at a wedding this past weekend. Which was a wonder.

cb1d0__Outdoor-Wedding-Decoration-Picture

It was a vegan wedding, which means they had all sorts of vegan things to eat.

Now, that might scare some of you, and it might delight others. And still, it might leave people wondering what this professor was doing there.

Well, I’m not going to tell you.

I was looking about like a well-meaning fellow (I was also in a white suit, it must be noted) when I saw the bride and groom seated by themselves enjoying a vegan dinner.

The professor approached and pulled up a chair.

They just stared at me, speechless. The white suit does that to people. So bright it leaves them dumfounded, see.

I broke the silence.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you two,” I said.

“Too late,” the bride said quickly, “we’ve been congratulated by nearly everyone here.”

“Astounding,” I answered. “I’m usually the first person to congratulate people on things like this.”

Then there was some silence.

Not the most speech-able people, see. And when there’s silence, one must make up things.

“So,” I began, “did you know there’s an epidemic passing through the bunny population?”

cutest-bunny-ever

That got them.

The bride started. “No!”

Then, of course, I remembered this was a vegan wedding. Truly, the professor was trapped, dadblameit.

“Are you serious?” the groom said, staring hard at me.

Nothing for it but to go forward now.

This professor nodded. “It’s horrible.”

“What’s it do to the bunnies?” the bride asked.

“It starts in their feet,” I answered. “Turns them black. Then the ears fall off. After that, the heart shuts down.”

I must admit, I was proud of the disease. At least, it sounded realistic.

But the groom wasn’t happy. The bride was crying.

“I’m going to look this up on my phone,” he said, pulling the dadblame device from his pocket, “and if it’s not true…”

“I just remembered,” I said, the sudden, “that particular epidemic passed through 10 years ago.”

And I left.

Moral: Don’t tell bunny death stories at a vegan wedding. 


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Punchy Argot:

1. Dadblameit.
2. Humdinger
3. Chickit
4. Chicky-woot-woot
5. Malediction
6. Rapscallion
7. Gardoobled
8. Congratulilolations
9. Togoggin
10. Gargonic
11. Two and Five Gurgles
12. Rats and a Heifer
13. Two nods, a wink, and an astroid
14. A bit, bits, and little bits
15. Huff-Hum and a Roar
16. So many thanks, I can't begin to thank you
17. Ri-do-diculous


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