Professor Blat, he's like-- That's his real name, no shit, Blat. No fuckin', Blat. He's like that, too: Blat. Everyone's Oh, he's Princeton and Harvard, he must be smart. Turns out the guy is like, I mean: a guy this dumb should need a license just to walk around in public. First time I met him, I walked out of his office, I'm thinking, seriously, I'm going I wonder if he's had some kind of brain injury recently? The guy takes a few seconds to form a thought, 'nother couple of seconds to spit it out. Someone said it's because he's from the South. Fuck that. I know people from the South. South were like that, the North would have let them secede. Lincoln would've been like: yeah, get the fuck out of here, we don't want you. And, listen, I'm not a prude. I'm not a big-time feminist. But this guy, I mean right in the classroom, he's so slow he doesn't seem to get his face is like a bulletin board: whatever he's thinking is like posted in flashing letters. Okay, he's never said anything, I admit that. And he's never done anything. He's never so much as put his hand on my arm. But, I swear, every time this guy looks at me, you know he's only thinking one thing. His eyes get hungry, his mouth drops open, he leans toward me like a begging puppy. It's demeaning. It's humiliating. I would've dropped the class long ago, 'cept no matter what shit I turn in to him, it comes back with an "A."