One afternoon, Professor Trust Fund interrupted my writing class—just swung open the door and interjected himself: a chance for collaborative pedagogy, he announced, haha!
His outfit could pay my rent for three months, I thought, as he strolled across my classroom. Camel skin trench. Tailored pants. Armani. Leather shoes. The smug, rich prick was well-rested, well-fed, and ready to mold young minds, or some such shit. He’d just finished up at the gym, had some time to kill before Badminton practice…
So, we will teach together, he concluded as he barged in. This is Great!
Perhaps he’s this pushy because he’s a competitive athlete, I thought. That’s what he once scoffed, squatting in his designer chair, his gut hanging out, drinking overpriced wine.
We were at Trust Fund’s party. He invited us all—everyone in the program—to the apartment his parents paid for. It was a nice place. Yeah, the interior decorator did a nice job. Don’t you think?
At some point another colleague—Norm—made a high school crack about Trust Fund’s sexual stamina, or something, to which Trust Fund rolled his eyes and replied: Um, Norm. I’m a competitive Badminton player. I’m an athlete. ::scoff::
So, what are we teaching today, Charles?
He plopped his ass on my desk, dangled his feet, smiled, and said hi, one at a time, to each of my students. Then he looked back at me for his answer. I was just stunned silent.
Um, dude? He snapped his fingers. What are we teaching?
Well, I stammered, I was just explaining the ad hominem fallacy and… Trust fund quickly jumped in:
Oh! That’s when you attack or belittle someone personally, instead of sticking to their claim or argument.
A student raised her hand. Trust fund acknowledged her with a nod and a grin. Can you give us an example? she asked.
Surely! Trust Fund smiled, and pointed at me. It would be like if I told you not to listen to Charles here, because he’s dressed like a fucking bum.