"So, uh, is this the bordello?" Maybe I should have said it louder. But, you know, one tries to be discreet.
Now this was tofu -- spongy, slippery, brown-speckled gray, oozing juices and reeking so badly you couldn't hold it 12 inches from your face.
Cocke Hall is a tough place to be a chair. In most buildings, the job's not so bad. You plunk yourself down on one side of the room, wait for a body to plunk down on you and for the next 50 minutes, just hang out right there.
The biggest mammal on Grounds today is probably a member of our football team. It's unquestionably a member of our species.
Quilters, I'm told, always put a mistake in the final product. They'll have rows and rows of geometric precision, and in the midst they'll crowd some stitches, mismatch a seam or insert a slightly wrong color
I do hope a geology professor reads this. I've got the most thrilling invocation for her next syllabus: "The dreams about the modes of creation, enquiries whether our globe has been formed by the agency of fire or water, how many millions of years it has cost Vulcan or Neptune to produce what the fiat of the Creator would effect by a single act of will..." (Breathtaking, isn't it?) "...is too idle to be worth a single hour of any man's life." Ouch.
It's not a pretty scene. "Weren't you looking?" the older woman bellows. She's cradling a bruised ankle in her left hand; her right is knotted up in a fist, thrust out like a promise to the erstwhile driver.
Just punch a professor; that's all you've got do to. A young one, ideally -- an "assistant" or "associate," someone who just got here and doesn't know the streets.
Plants are supremely intelligent. They will tell you anything -- the time of day, the cure for cancer, the whereabouts of elephants, when it will rain, why in the world we fall in love. People are supremely stupid.
Eventually, you have to leave. Graduate, I mean. People tell you this, occasionally, as though it helps.
