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There was only one thing more important to Professor Giles than deconstructionist theory: freshman pussy. His groundbreaking paper, Derrida, Semiotics and Sweet Poontang: Oh Man, Oh Man, had garnered him a senior chair at State U. and not a small quantity of fresh, cornfed cunt. It was no surprise then that each semester his survey course, Modes of Comparative Literature: Shut Up, Open Your Mouth and Receive My Hot Yellow Fuck, landed him the pick of the freshman litter.
This year it was Freida Steinem. She had the proportions of Olive Oyl and a certain bitchy vulnerability that would, Giles was certain, act like Metamusil on his clogged constitution. Once the class had assembled, he loosened his tie and pulled it over his head. When he started unbuttoning his shirt there were gasps and whispers (as usual), but the earthy expression created by his rheumy eyes and puckered asshole-mouth shamed them into silence. Naked at last, Giles stood before them defiant, as if proud of his over-easy breasts and head-to-toe pelt of hoary pubes. As if to say, "This is me. I lay before you my blemished body, my very humanity."
He walked in front of Freida Steinem’s desk and put his left foot on top of it. An elongated question of a fart squeaked out of his loose, malfunctioning sphincter.
“Who said, ‘Writing is the clothing of speech… a garment of perversion and debauchery, a dress of corruption and disguise,’” he asked the class, his knotty member Pinnochioing centimeters away from Steinem’s hairy upper lip.
Silence. Awe. He had them. Had her. He would lead her down a blind alley of concubinage and degradation, leaving her naked and broken among the detritus 20th century thought, leaving her, no doubt, with a philosophy that just didn’t work.
Date Written: February 26, 2003
Average Vote: 4.35714