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This is part three of a series. Click here to check out part two of Michael Jenkins, Self-Righteous College Professor.
Metallica blares from the clock radio on Professor Michael Jenkins’ nightstand.
Michael leans over and hammers the snooze button so as to postpone his misery if not for just a few more minutes.
As he does every morning, Michael lays there, sulking, as the buzz of 747s reverberate across his one-bedroom condo next to the airport.
How did life get like this? Everything’s gone to shit since Angie left to go “find herself.” It’s been seven years — seven fucking years — and do you think the old bat has found what she was looking for? Unless that thing was all my money or chlamydia from a pool boy, the answer’s no.
As he lays pondering, he chuckles over his own jokes. Not because they are funny, but rather over the realization of how pathetic everything has gotten. At 43 years old, he’s all alone with no kids nor money, and he’s forced to take a daily pile of shit from a bunch of 18 to 22-year-old know-it-alls.
This particular morning, his moment of self-deprecation is interrupted by a ringing from his Blackberry Curve. It’s his sister Shelly.
Regretfully, he picks up.
“What do you want, Shell?”
“Hey baby bro, knew you’d be up.”
So cheery this one
“I just wanted to check in and see how your date with my friend Karen went.”
“Well Shell, if we’re being honest with each other, the broad wasn’t really my type. She was not at all responsive to my collection of black market presidential body parts. Do you have any idea how much Lincoln’s ear goes for in today’s mark-”
Shelly promptly cuts him off.
“You brought fucking BODY PARTS out to dinner? What is this, kindergarten? Fucking show-and-tell for weirdos? Goddamnit Michael, you promised me you’d be normal for once!”
“I just think that if someone is going to be with me, they should take interest in what I take interest in. Is that too much to ask?”
“Jesus Christ, Mikey.”
Shelly hangs up before he can offer his rebuttal.
The alarm rings again, and this time Mike takes his frustration out on it even harder, sweeping at it with such force that it takes flight from his nightstand and slams into the wall.
Perfect Shelly, always trying to come in and save the day. I can find women on my own, thank you very much. Just last week, there was that exchange in the copy room with Mary from the History department. It started out with me offering to staple her papers, and the next thing you know we’re butt-ass naked shoving pencils up each other’s you know wheres…
Thinking about Mary causes MJ to start in on that other part of his morning wakeup routine. Her thicc-AF framed glasses and denim pencil skirt were enough to get any man in the mood. The thought reminded him of this romance movie that he had accidentally come across once on Cinemax while searching for a rerun of the classic piece of American cinema Shrek 2. In it, two coworkers are accidentally locked in the copy room of their office overnight and are forced to fuck each other while wearing Teletubbies costumes. They both must find the strength to cum every hour if they hope to survive.
But his thought is suddenly halted mid-tug as the normal sound of planes passing overhead is replaced with a thunderous roar. This roar sounds much louder than normal, and louder only means one thing: closer. Louder and closer it gets. Is this a crash landing? Could one of the planes be malfunctioning? Is it going to hit near his house?
No sound effect could duplicate it. The whole house shook like a level-7 earthquake had struck Airport Drive. In a panic, Mike ducked for cover under his pillow — like that would save him.
But quickly, the deafening sound slid back into silence and everything inside the house was still intact.
Throwing on his Shrek robe with matching slippers, he wandered outside to assess the situation. Upon a quick peek, he was surprised to see that pretty much everything looked in order. No Boeings in the street. No people screaming for help, pinned under the collapse of their homes. Just another day in the neighborhood.
Unsatisfied, Mike keeps investigating. It isn’t until he turns the corner to his driveway that he sees it: pierced through the windshield of his ’97 Crown Vic is one of those STUPID drone flying things.
That fucking little shit.
Right away, Michael knows just who to blame. He stomps across the way to a duplex where a family of three lives. For months, he has been complaining to the parents about the conduct of their 12-year-old wreaking havoc on his evenings. Shooting at his house with a paintball gun while screaming “taste the rainbow, bitch,” doing the old-fashioned ding-dong-doodoo, and, of course, leaving rotten cartons of milk in his mailbox were just a few of this misguided youth’s many transgressions. But doing damage to his precious car? The buck stops here.
“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, FUCKHEAD!”
He ferociously pounds his neighbors’ front door while screaming. Unfortunately, he will soon realize that the sound of actual planes landing and taking off are drowning out his cries.
Still, he continues on, even if it is just to make himself feel better.
“This is probably some big joke to you, huh? Let’s see if the police feel the same way!”
Finally realizing that no one is going to answer, he storms back into the house to make the call.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Hi there, My name is Michael Jenkins and I would like to report destruction to my personal property. Some vandal drove his toy drone through the windshield of my car.”
“Um, sir, that seems like kind of an accident. Are you sure it is worth reporting?”
“I assure you it was NO ACCIDENT. This kid has been terrorizing the neighborhood for months now and it is high time that he be dealt with.”
The operator sighs.
“Well, did you see him do it?”
“No, but I assure you it was him.”
Again, a sigh can be heard from the other side of the phone.
“Okay sir, what’s the address?”
“It is 2200 Airport Dr. Unit #D2”
“Sir, our records indicate that to be a rental property. Technically since you do not own it, only your landlord can press any charges over a crime this minor.”
“Are you serious? Can I speak with somebody else please? What about a no-fly-zone thing by the airport? That has to be a thing, right?”
“Please do not call back, sir. This line is reserved for REAL emergencies.”
The landlord won’t do shit about this. I’ve written some very strongly-worded emails about this kid and the response is always the same: they are going to “look into it” then NOTHING. But I nail a broad with a strap-on made from Nixon’s penis one time — on my own lawn, no less –and the whole neighborhood loses their minds. Bullshit.
In his dejection, he takes a moment to check the time. It is a school day, after all.
Fuckkk, less than an hour until class. How am I supposed to get to work?
Michael remembers that he had an old friend who used to be a cab driver. He strolls over to the desk in the corner and combs through his rolodex.
Barron, Becky with the good hair, Benson, Big Tittie Honkers, Bin Laden… Brown! Jimmy Brown, there he is.
“Ayyy Jimmy, Mikey Jenks here. Question for you: you still driving cabs?”
“Mikey! Haven’t heard from you since the orgie we had with those strippers at my brother’s bachelor party. Lemme ask you something: was the doctor ever able to get all of that coconut oil out of your urethra? Nevermind, none of my business… But cabs? No, man; it’s 2017. It’s all Uber now.”
That’s the thing my students are always getting arrested in.
“What’s the number to call for one of those?”
“You can’t call them, Mike. It’s an app… You’ve seriously never heard of Uber? Just look it up; it’s pretty self-explanatory. Anyways, I gotta go. I’m in the middle of convincing this broad that I’m Patrick Swayze reincarnated.”
It is at this point that Michael first realizes that his Blackberry may not totally be up to date with the latest tech. No Uber to be found.
Faced with limited time and options, he is forced to resort to a formidable rival of Uber’s: public transportation. Michael has long done his best to avoid the ol’ metro, which he’s been known to call “a cesspool of homeless people drowning in their own piss.” But, as his father once said,”sometimes you’ve gotta pucker up and suck today’s dick.”
Apprehensively, he gets himself together and rushes to the nearest bus stop down the block.
About 50 yards from his destination, he sees the bus coming from around the corner behind him. Just as it makes its way around the bend, one of those STUPID fucking drone things comes buzzing in front of it. The driver gets distracted, swerves, and flips the motherfucker.
Just fantastic! Now I’m never making it to class!
Bewildered, he takes a seat on the bench behind him. It takes but just a few minutes for a homeless man to accost him.
Here we go.
“Professor Jenkins, is that you?”
“Yes… How do you know me?”
“My name’s Sam. I had your class a few years back.”
Michael blankly stares at the shell of a man standing in front of him.
“Oh yes, Sam. How are you doing?”
“Oh me? Just fucking peachy. No, I’m terrible. I had to drop out of school over the shit you put me through, you son of a bitch.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to, Sam.”
Whatever rage Sam might have had inside of him, he managed to find all of it.
“YOU DON’T REMEMBER? You don’t remember being suspended for three weeks for standing on a desk and pissing all over a student’s paper in front of the whole class?”
Fuck, that’s who this is? He looks terrible.
“Sam, look — I’m really sorry… but you have to admit, that paper kinda did suck.”
“YOU SON OF A BITCHHHH!”
Sam charges full-force towards Jenkins…
That concludes this week’s edition. What do you guys want to see happen? Does Jenkdawg get stabbed to death and carry out his reign of terror in the afterlife? Does he go full kung fu and murk this poor soul Sam? Or does he run like a baby back bitch? And will he ever make it to class on time? Let me know what you want to see happen in the comments section below, and find out the result next week on: Michael Jenkins, Self-Righteous College Professor.
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