"God is not evil Bob."
"He's not saying God is evil. He's saying that he does not pretend to understand God, yet sees his work in everything."
"But Bob, God is not evil."
"I am not made of dirt, Bob, that's just a metaphor in the bible."
"Actually Sharon, you are, according to the second law of thermodynamics, all matter.."
"Now, thats just blasphemy, Bob."
I really wish I had a tranquilizer dart gun sometimes. Two hours and fifty-five minutes of my three hour U.S. Studies II class were spent listening to my professor (Bob) attempt to explain transcendentalism to a fundamentalist nimrod. Mind you, Bob is the kind of professor who gets wound up very easily. We were discussing Walt Whitman. We never touched on the good stuff, like
I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires,
I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride
myself,
I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips
My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the
stairs
They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd
Hell, we never even actually read any passages aloud. This person just began denouncing Whitman as homoerotic blasphemy, and did not stop until class was over. A single tranquilizer dart would have ended this.
This was the last class, and I had been looking forward to it all semester. I love Whitman. I love analyzing and discussing good poetry. I don't love shrill voiced people who are incapable of listening to anything that doesn't end in "or you will go to hell."
Well, no, I take that back. I enjoyed what she had to say the first five or so times she opened her mouth. It was quaint. Sort of like "awww, someone can't seem to grasp transcendentalism".
The quaint wore off quickly.
"He's not saying God is evil. He's saying that he does not pretend to understand God, yet sees his work in everything."
"But Bob, God is not evil."
"I am not made of dirt, Bob, that's just a metaphor in the bible."
"Actually Sharon, you are, according to the second law of thermodynamics, all matter.."
"Now, thats just blasphemy, Bob."
I really wish I had a tranquilizer dart gun sometimes. Two hours and fifty-five minutes of my three hour U.S. Studies II class were spent listening to my professor (Bob) attempt to explain transcendentalism to a fundamentalist nimrod. Mind you, Bob is the kind of professor who gets wound up very easily. We were discussing Walt Whitman. We never touched on the good stuff, like
I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires,
I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride
myself,
I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips
My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the
stairs
They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd
Hell, we never even actually read any passages aloud. This person just began denouncing Whitman as homoerotic blasphemy, and did not stop until class was over. A single tranquilizer dart would have ended this.
This was the last class, and I had been looking forward to it all semester. I love Whitman. I love analyzing and discussing good poetry. I don't love shrill voiced people who are incapable of listening to anything that doesn't end in "or you will go to hell."
Well, no, I take that back. I enjoyed what she had to say the first five or so times she opened her mouth. It was quaint. Sort of like "awww, someone can't seem to grasp transcendentalism".
The quaint wore off quickly.