#shitfart

I am not harmed when I see a sponge

seeing a starfish is normal and doesnt hurt me

squidward is my master

squidward will cure me

I am not harmed when I see a clarinet

I am not harmed when I see a cash register

my opinions dont matter

I am not harmed when I see a squilliam

when I obsess over squilliam Im hurting myself

My literature senior seminar in Jewish comedy continues to be a treasure trove of notable moments...

Currently we just finished (allegedly--I’m still only about a quarter into it) the memoir Little Failure by Gary Shteyngart (a last name with quite the entertaining history behind it, as well as one that seems to be frequently misinterpreted as “Shitfart”).

In addition to our entertaining readings, our professor for the class has been a separate source of entertainment as well in his casual, conversational style.

As I mentioned before, our professor is a self-defined schlemiel (see earlier entry for a working definition of the term), and as such is on the awkward side in an endearing fashion, leading to such gems during his lectures as:

Accidentally saying “Juice” instead of “Bruce” when recalling a figure we were talking about (I don’t remember which, exactly, but it definitely wasn’t O.J. Simpson HAHA get it, because “Juice”? Okay, moving on...).

Hearing a mysterious and faint noise that I can only describe as “wolf-like”, and growing very concerned.

Avoiding saying curse words whenever possible. For instance, there’s a passage of Little Failure in which the author recounts the time as a child when he learned the word “fuck” from his peers at school. Our professor always danced around saying the word itself whenever possible, instead referring to it as “...that word” nervously.

Laughing while a passage of the book is read either by him or by a student in the class, and not always just a simple giggle or chuckle, but a real, genuine laugh. I mean who knows how much he’s probably read these books before, but he still turns into a kid again while reading it.

Arguing against a claim by the author of Little Failure that dachshunds are not an animal that you would be particularly proud to be compared to in terms of physical appearance, citing his own dachshunds that he owned as examples of noble, respectable (if disproportionate) creatures.