Dear Stupid Fucking Fuckwit:
Fuck you. And fuck off.
For many reasons. For emailing me last night to ask when is the midterm exam in our Business Ethics for Future Assistant Managers at McDonalds class. When I wrote the date of the midterm in the syllabus. When I read the date of the midterm out loud to you and your classmates the first day of class. When I have announced the date of the midterm several times since then. When I included the date of the midterm in the sample questions I emailed you a week ago. When I announced the date of the midterm . . . I need to stop here and repeat myself: Fuck you, dear stupid fucking fuckwit . . . ok . . . When I announced the date of the midterm in our last class.
For that. And for making me have to include instructions like these on an exam given to people chronologically older than four years old:
Use a pencil to fill in the bubble on your score sheet corresponding to the correct answer for all questions in Part I. You may use a pencil or pen for Part II.
Write your answer on this page. You may use both the front and back if necessary.
Otherwise, you and your fellow fuckwitted stupid fucking fuckwits would try to write exam answers with a moldy carrot on a rock. How do you not manage to have a fork in your eye by the end of every meal? Really, I wonder.
And fuck you for fuckwittedly complaining about your quiz score on these grounds:
Like, ok, him and me [pointing at Friend Fuckwit], like, wrote the same stuff and whatever but he got a better grade, how come?
No. That is not what happened. Friend Fuckwit wrote a quiz answer that was almost but not quite entirely fuckwitted. Your quiz answer was entirely fuckwitted. Got it? No, of course you don't.
And, yes, fuck you (and fuck off) for fuckwittedly complaining about the paper assignment. Yes, the documentary we watched DID address in more detail Issue A than Issue B. And, yes, I did ask you to write about Issue B instead of Issue A. But, no, I don't want to know that you'd rather write about Issue A, you stupid fucking fuckwit. See, you're the stupid fucking fuckwit and I am the "teacher" in this "college" "course." Which means I get to craft the "assignments" and you get to "complete" them in your remarkably stupid and fuckwitted way. An important division of labor, one you'll see appear again and again in your stupid and fuckwitted life. E.g., when the manager of the Cumberland, Rhode Island, McDonalds tells you to polish the fryolator at 11 pm on a Saturday night.
In sum:
Fuck you.
Fuck off.
And read the fucking syllabus before you ask me another question.
Yours,
Professor Crusher
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5 comments:
You're dead cross, aren't you? You are, I can tell.
My favorite misanthrope is back! Mind if I copy this to send to the HR f*ckwads I support?
Kisses, Crusher.
Oh! I feel the love. Your love for education. Your love for molding young fuckwad minds. Your love for sharing that love. Your love for the word "fuckwad."
I have some good mead, if you'd like a glass. Or a bottle.
You sound like you need a change of profession if you hate your students that much... I got into teaching because I wanted to help people... not berate them. Maybe you got into it for the wrong reasons...
Hey, Don't blame the dimwit, blame yourself Professor Crusher. You "trained" dimwit and all like him by writing it on the syllabus, by announcing it on the first day, by repeating it several times throughout the course and by announcing it again during the last class. You created the dependency, deal with it!
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