Nothing smells as fresh and fertile as cool rain in the jungle - except for my woman, but we are not discussing her right now. Dripping and cascading from every direction, rinsing and polishing the leaves to a shiny vibrant green from the treetops downward. A rainforest canopy is Doctor God's version of an oxygen tent. I'm a lucky permanent resident in this sanitarium.
As I sip my rich coffee grown on a nearby plantation, I notice that the jungle is somewhat devoid of wild animal noises today. Ah yes, the semester has finished and students have left for the summer. Like Canadian geese and Monarch butterflies, inhabitants of this artificial ecosystem called a university have their seasonal migratory cycles. (Nevertheless, bohemian friends can feel free to blame the still forest on America's rejection of the Paris accord.)
Only a spoiled ungrateful professor would wish for the extinction of these savage beasts and forget that their parents fund his cushy lifestyle. (For smug insulated academics who look down their noses on the hard working folks who pay their salary, there is a special place in hell, where their lamest pupils are responsible for bringing them food, water, and toilet paper.) No, helping my students acquire a few marketable skills and a tiny bit of wisdom is my miniscule contribution to the cosmos in exchange for its undeserved generosity to me. Still, my conscience does not require me to long for their early return.
Around the cafeteria patio are other professorial bookworm nerds. We smile timidly at each other in our mutual joy at getting a break from the unbearable pressure to interact with other humans. Speaking of extinction, it's a wonder we professors ever reproduce. Should a scantily-clad babe walk by, many academics would continue chewing on their thoughts, like lethargic sexually-unmotivated pandas chomping bamboo while their numbers decline.
Meanwhile, the low IQ bimbos guzzle beers and nuzzle peers and misread birth-control instructions and repopulate the earth like Noah after the flood (of semen). Thank the Lord my colleagues are Mexican professors. Most of them can actually dance and none of them have publicly demanded that all professors having sex or eating meat be fired for their support of rape culture and violent patriarchy. We're geeks not lunatics.
Yes, I've escaped my native California (known in North Carolina as the land of fruits and nuts but known in North Korea as the advanced target range), and I have a temporary respite from students asking me why I'm giving them a bad grade on an exam they didn't even take. At least, my students show drive and initiative in following the original fertile garden instruction given by an authority figure: "Be fruitful and multiply!"
Professors sow the seeds of knowledge, while the normals sow the seeds that preserve the species. Let's be honest: our future doesn't lie in the hands of brilliant educators reading classic novels; it lies in the hands of dumbass fornicators reading the condom labels. It's the end of the world as we know it, and (thanks to rainforest coffee) I feel fine. Actually, we're all in much much better hands. The Creator has really really big hands, and we all know what that means: we're not the king of the jungle, and
that's just fine.
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