I have several other posts to try to get up, but this one takes a little precedence at the moment. I have to come up with a really good excuse for turning in a paper late. In the meantime, I would love to have you check out the great discussions over at Pieces of Me. In one, JLK talks about WTF she does, sparking a really interesting discussion in comments. In the other, she gives us part one of a series on gender, which if you read the comments from the first, you will discover is an issue that I am very enthusiastic about. I am ignoring part one, chapter 2 until I get this damned excuse written.
I will be writing the third part of my harm reduction series next, because I really really, need to stay focused on my research paper. But then I am going to write about gender (a hint, having a penis doesn't inherently make one's gender male and having a vagina, doesn't inherently make one's gender female). And if I have time, I am going to respond to someone who had the temerity to disagree with my views on pornography. Damn her, damn her to teh seven hells!!! (not really, dissent is not only welcome, but encouraged - I am just as fond of having my mind changed by compelling arguments and evidence, as I am of changing the minds of others)
But for now, please do me a favor. I want you to pretend you're a professor who has very strict rules about getting papers in on time (for some of you, pretending won't be necessary, I'm sure). Pretend also that I am your student and am committing the cardinal sin, normally deserving of a good flogging and public humiliation in the stocks - of trying to turn my paper in late. Would you accept this excuse?
Please be warned, naughty words in this post and hiding them has failed for the moment
Scenario:
DuWayne comes wandering into Dr. Whatzitz office, three days after the final paper was due. He is looking very shellshocked, recoiling in fear at every sudden, unexpected noise - no matter how mundane. His terror is palpable, almost contagious - Dr. Whatzitz finds herself glancing behind her, though she has no idea why.
Dr. Whatzitz: (too garbled to understand)
DuWayne: I'm s-s-sorry, b-b-but m-my ears are--I m-mean I c-c-can't hear so well....
Dr. Whatzitz: I said, what the hell are you doing here!?! Your paper is late and I don't accept late papers or lame damned excuses!!!
DuWayne (weeping): B-b-but.....
Dr. Whatzitz: But nothing dammit! I'm sure you think you have a perfectly reasonable excuse. But I've heard every damned one of them. Unless the bloody damned world was coming to an end, and only your pathetic, sniveling little ass could save it - shut the hell up and....
DuWayne (getting hysterical): AAARRRGGGHHH!!! (smashing his fists down on her desk and jumping up and down in primal rage/terror - smacks his head on her desk a couple times for good measure)
Dr. Whatzitz (backing up slowly, wishing to the god she wished existed at that particular moment, that she had a fucking panic button, like people who work in banks get - she puts her hands up in a gesture of surrender): Erg. Uh. But - I - think I could hear you out......
DuWayne (looking slightly dazed, a trickle of blood running down his face, from where his head smashed into a sharp bit of random floatsam on the desk - that had just been waiting for the moment someone had a nasty accident while smashing their head into the desk):Wheooh. (suddenly clarity falls across his face) Right. Sorry about that. It's just that I recently lost half my mind.
Dr. Whatzitz: You what!
DuWayne: Lost half my mind...Look, if you'll just let me explain...
Dr. Whatzitz (starting to look rather shellshocked herself):Ermm, go on...
DuWayne: Well apparently my gran was actually a prostitute once upon a time and..
Dr. Whatzitz: The hell?!?
DuWayne: Just let me explain dammit.
Dr. Whatzitz: Erg...
DuWayne: So as I was saying - gran used to be a prostitute and it turns out that gramps, well, gramps wasn't actually my grandad. Apparently, Winston Churchill was my biological grandfather. Amazing really, the things you discover when you're kidnapped by space Nazis.
Dr. Whatzitz: Space Nazis!!!
DuWayne (frantically looking around, whimpering and shaking - stops, shakes his head - smacks his head against a bookshelf a few times - couple of deep breaths): Yes, space Nazis. You see, when defeat was inevitable, a cohort of the third Reich implemented the super, extra-especially secret plan. They prepared the ships for departure, while a ninja SS officer made a daring run into The bunker and scraped up some cells from Hitler's remains. He barely made it in time. With Germany's surrender, the Allies were closing in rather quickly. But make it he did and the rockets blasted them off and up to their secret base on the dark side of the moon.
Once there, they got to work rebuilding the Reich [insert inappropriate representation of producing a new generation of Nazis] and creating a clone of das Fuhrer. Their first attempt at cloning apparently was a failure, as was their second - but finally, they made it work.
Dr. Wahtzitz: This is all very interesting, but I fail to see what the hell it has to do with your paper being late.
DuWayne: (getting agitated, picks up a red paperweight and smashes it on the floor) Dammit Dr. I'm Fuckingwell getting there. (Dr. Whatzitz really wishing for that damned panic button again)
Sorry. (calming down) I - just....I'm sorry.
Like I said, gran was a whore - I mean - shit. Winston Churchill was my biological grandfather. That means that I carry his DNA. And those damned space Nazis believe some prophecy that seems to say that either I'll thwart their plans or become the greatest flamenco dancer who ever lived - apparently the details of the prophecy are a little vague. But when they learned that I can't dance, they knew they had to stop me. Also according to their prophecy, if they kill me they're doomed.
So last week they kidnapped me, took me to their base in the moon and began sucking my mind out with this weird machine. But in the middle, the process was interrupted when I was rescued. I got some help getting some of my mind back, but the machine was damaged during the rescue and counterattack.
Dr. Whatzitz: Counterattack?!?
DuWayne: Yeah. Funny thing that. Apparently when the Nazis started sucking my mind out, something clicked in my head and the Rabbis knew it was time to attack, that victory was at hand.
Dr. Whatzitz: Rabbis?!?
DuWayne: Oh shit. Yeah. The guys that rescued me? They were the most remarkably technologically advanced Jewish sect. They claim they saw the writing on the wall way back, more than two thousand years ago. They claim that when Moses brought down the ten commandments, he brought with him the plans for the most remarkable fucking space crafts. Then just a few years before that Jesus character was born, their god told them to build according to those plans. They've been living on a moon of Jupiter ever since - just waiting for me to come along and get kidnapped by the fucking space Nazis.
Then they saved me and whatever was locked in my Winston Churchill DNA made this special weapon they had actually turn on. It was kind of like... Look, have you ever seen Stargate Alantis?
Dr. Whatzitz (looking rather uncomfortable): Umm. No, of course not. I don't watch silly sciencefiction about other galaxies and, umm. No, nope, never seen it.
DuWayne: Ok, well basically, when I walked up to this machine, it just turned on. The Rabbis think that maybe Winston Churchill's anscestors, and mine, were actually aliens. They figure these aliens could see the future - or maybe they just assumed that somewhere along the line it would be necessary. So they decided to use the Jews, because they figured the Jews were pretty hardcore - determined. That they would be the perfect folks to put in charge of this weapon.
So, umm, anywho.... I finally managed to finish the paper. It was really tough, what with the problems with my mind and all. But dammit. I mean come on, it turns out that I really was out there saving the world and all that shit. Can I please, possibly turn it in a little late. I mean I really had no control over it. It's not my fault that gran was a.... I mean Winston Churchill was my biological grandad.
Dr. Whatzitz:.....
What say you? Leave a comment, letting me know if my excuse would sway even your hardened heart.
9 comments:
Dude. The success of your excuse depends too heavily on Dr. Whatzitz's unwavering commitment to her scholarly curiosity . . . as well as her convenient ignorance of mad ninja skills. If you don't ease her into your disclosure of your mind-boggling family history and central role in the destiny of our universe, then you are totally shafted.
Otherwise, I see nothing wrong with this strategy. You clearly have an exclusively heart-softening tale to tell. Surely, no professor can refuse to accept your late paper after its telling. Do you happen to remain adorable when stage blood and tears run down your face?
The toggle is still not working for you? It should. It's just a pain in the ass.
This scene reminds me of the one in Fight Club where Ed Norton goes into his boss's office and beats the crap out of himself while his boss looks on in horror.
I love that movie.
However, my heart is very, very hardened. While I would not accept your paper, I would happily authorize your transfer to the theater department.
Juniper -
It was taking the close tag from other functions to close the hidden part. So only a few para's were hidden. But...
Stage blood and tears!?!? This is for real dammit.
Sandy Shoes -
It's ok, because the one I have to convince is my research/writing instructor, who is much more enthusiastic about creative writing. And ironically, my excuse for why my paper is late assignment actually got to her quite early. I emailed it last night (this morning really) and it's not due until Thursday.....
I am actually very good about getting stuff in on time. The only snafu was due to technical issues with my only online class. And thankfully, I wasn't the only one who screwed it up. The six of us who did, coupled with some technical errors on our instructors part, lent him to allow us to actually turn those assignments in late.
Very good, creative excuse!
But you're forgetting that you're a magical nontrad student!
Which means, you can always blame it on the kids or the job! (Concepts that most of these profs can understand and sympathize with)
Great story, but no sale.
Trip to the ER for kid's over-consumption of Tylenol on the other hand would probably sway my cold hardened heart.
See? AA knows what I'm talking about!
I guess it depends on what your goal is - to get the extension or to get a reputation as an entertainer.
;)
I guess it depends on what your goal is - to get the extension or to get a reputation as an entertainer.
Actually the goal here was to have more fun than than a lame, yet legitimate excuse would be. I probably could have gotten a good grade with a much shorter, much less interesting excuse, but it would have been far more boring to write.
And it really was far more amusing to write.
And honestly, were I truly dealing with having had my brain sifted that way, I probably wouldn't care much about the grade. While I probably would manage the strain of the surprise at being kidnapped by space Nazis and rescued by Jews in Space!, it was the notion of having half my mind ripped out by a weird machine that would really fuck me up. I was thinking along the lines of more specific reasons for descending a few notches further from a more typical level of mental instability.
I was just teasing you, dude. You know I think you're brilliant!
It's a good story dude, but uh, I don't see how it would persuade me to take the paper. :P
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