![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Today was a good day. No, Dr. Hot didn't pole-dance to the beat of "I'm Too Sexy"; he didn't even discuss Kronos the Titan as promised, but nevertheless, I enjoyed class.
What I do not enjoy are my fellow students. In fact, I often fantasize that my wheelchair is outfitted with spikes like the Evil Chariot of Evil in Ben Hur, the better to mow them down while they yammer obliviously into their cellphones and block the curb cuts in sorority slut Starbuck klatches. Unexpected and immediate pain has a way of grabbing even the densest dullard's attention.
I hate college students. They're rude, entitled idiots who treat the experience like an extension of high school. I would never dream of walking into a fifty-minute lecture at the twenty-minute mark and standing conspicuously in the aisle to gab loudly on my cellphone and look for a seat. If I'm more than five minutes late, I do not attend the lecture. Period. Moving into position in a classroom often takes a great deal of furniture rearrangement, and the teacher deserves more respect than that. So do the students responsible enough to be on time. If I miss something important, then them's the breaks for not being on time. It's a simple matter of action and consequence.
Yet day after day, students saunter into class twenty minutes late, cellphones clapped to their ears, and expect others to make room for them.
Fuck you running, you candy-assed nitwits. If you want a seat, be on time. Otherwise, sit on the floor by the rear door, but if you do that, be aware that you're preventing me from being able to exit quietly in the event of an urgent call from nature. I will nudge your books and laptops aside, and no, I really don't give a shit about your $1400 Macbook. You need to take notes? Well, golly gee, use a pen and a notebook, which cost $2.00 at the dollar store. Besides, your precious circuit board with the designer logo won't work any better if I piss on it because you won't move.
If I were a teacher, I'd lock the doors from the inside as soon as class started, and stragglers would be out of luck. They could bang on the doors until Till Lindemann got ugly, and I wouldn't care. Maybe that would teach the little fuckers that when the syllabus says class begins at 11:15, that isn't the time they should stroll from their dorm rooms on a cloud of body spray.
Or maybe I'd just get fired for "depriving them of their education."
If they really give a damn about their education, then maybe they should be assed to show up on time for a class they paid for and show the teacher respect by putting down the cellphone.
But there's no place for either that kind of logic or the notion of negative consequences for negative actions, and so, like Alice, I'll just lie back and dream of Wonderland.
Or maybe I'll just be a menstruating Pooh and bury my grumpiness in a pot of honey, a pot I'll be sure to leave on my head once I've finished.
What I do not enjoy are my fellow students. In fact, I often fantasize that my wheelchair is outfitted with spikes like the Evil Chariot of Evil in Ben Hur, the better to mow them down while they yammer obliviously into their cellphones and block the curb cuts in sorority slut Starbuck klatches. Unexpected and immediate pain has a way of grabbing even the densest dullard's attention.
I hate college students. They're rude, entitled idiots who treat the experience like an extension of high school. I would never dream of walking into a fifty-minute lecture at the twenty-minute mark and standing conspicuously in the aisle to gab loudly on my cellphone and look for a seat. If I'm more than five minutes late, I do not attend the lecture. Period. Moving into position in a classroom often takes a great deal of furniture rearrangement, and the teacher deserves more respect than that. So do the students responsible enough to be on time. If I miss something important, then them's the breaks for not being on time. It's a simple matter of action and consequence.
Yet day after day, students saunter into class twenty minutes late, cellphones clapped to their ears, and expect others to make room for them.
Fuck you running, you candy-assed nitwits. If you want a seat, be on time. Otherwise, sit on the floor by the rear door, but if you do that, be aware that you're preventing me from being able to exit quietly in the event of an urgent call from nature. I will nudge your books and laptops aside, and no, I really don't give a shit about your $1400 Macbook. You need to take notes? Well, golly gee, use a pen and a notebook, which cost $2.00 at the dollar store. Besides, your precious circuit board with the designer logo won't work any better if I piss on it because you won't move.
If I were a teacher, I'd lock the doors from the inside as soon as class started, and stragglers would be out of luck. They could bang on the doors until Till Lindemann got ugly, and I wouldn't care. Maybe that would teach the little fuckers that when the syllabus says class begins at 11:15, that isn't the time they should stroll from their dorm rooms on a cloud of body spray.
Or maybe I'd just get fired for "depriving them of their education."
If they really give a damn about their education, then maybe they should be assed to show up on time for a class they paid for and show the teacher respect by putting down the cellphone.
But there's no place for either that kind of logic or the notion of negative consequences for negative actions, and so, like Alice, I'll just lie back and dream of Wonderland.
Or maybe I'll just be a menstruating Pooh and bury my grumpiness in a pot of honey, a pot I'll be sure to leave on my head once I've finished.