So Ilse left her job at Eat The World, Inc. This is a good thing; the commute was driving her bonkers, and she was considerably underappreciated anyway. I mean, I assume the sex was as good for them as it is for me. Ilse has chosen to embark on a new career in poisoning the minds of America's young.
This requires a little bit of an educational realignment, because the topic in which Ilse would like to direct her poisoning is high school English. Ilse's postsecondary education thus far has focused entirely on alcohol, anatomy, and to a lesser extent, American history. So while she has been admitted to a graduate degree program that will certify her in mind-poisoning, it is with the stipulation that she take a little extra course work in literatoor.
We have a good friend, Goth (who seems to be getting a lot of linkage/play here lately), who is the world's greatest high school English teacher. He is brilliant and funny, and engages teenagers (girls in plaid skirts, no less) with his innovative antics, such as dressing up as Biggie Smalls and rapping The Canterbury Tales or interpreting Romeo and Juliet in South Florida in the 1990s with Leo DiCaprio and some random whore as the leads. No, wait, somebody else did that second thing. But they stole the concept from Goth.
So Ilse's drive to succeed is multi-sourced. She's always wanted to teach, and our good friend is an outstanding role model for the kind of teacher everyone should be. But there's this literatoor thing to hurdle, first.
And "hurdle" isn't too far from what this course is inducing for poor Ilse. I see stacked on the table before me a partial sample of what she is to endure over the coming semester. It involves romantic poets and people named Heathcliff and Emma. And windswept moors. Bwahahahahahahahahaha!!!! Eat Miss Havisham, bitch!
I love my wife, I really do. And I am not a horrible little man, as she will have you believe (after reading this). But weeks and weeks of Rex-torture followed by this?
Life is schweet.
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