modern disappointment.

A place to file your complaints. Submissions welcome.

Complaints About My Fucking Job.

students

By Bert Toadstool

Okay. I know what you’re thinking. It’s either “you’re lucky to have a job,” or “if you don’t like it, find another one!” Well, a) fuck you and b) it’s not that easy, asshole.

I have a thing or three to say about working in higher education. And I’m not going to be as polite as the article written by Sinnamon Rohl on Modern Disappointment. If being an adjunct is basically modern slavery, it’s slavery that you’re lucky to have, house slave, because you should be grateful for your job, right? And you’re not out on the plantation, you’re inside with the fancy folk, you ungrateful, uppity nagger. Again, I’ll refer to my answer: a) fuck you.

Here’s a few things I’d like to share with anyone thinking of going into education or considering adjunct work. The shitting asshole that is academia is not the pompous one you think it is. It’s worse. It’s a profit-driven, politically controlled business that masquerades as a pompous, altruistic shitting asshole. Shit, actually, I’ll commiserate with any adjunct or educator over a few universal unspoken truths. They are as follows:

Being an instructor is a fucking glorified customer service position. If the student/customers don’t like what they bought, it’s your ass, mofo. Welcome to Walfart U, how may I teach you. There is NO hierarchy in the classroom unless the students bequeath it to you unbeknownst to them. If they complain, you will suffer. They have to feel like they like the class and that you have done a good job. Inversion of power, anyone? Pretend to learn and I’ll pretend to teach. I have paperwork to prove it.

Retention is God. You will work to get your adult students to attend, enjoy and succeed in class. If you have a low retention rate and a high failure rate it’s always your fault. No matter the subject, no matter the skill or intellect of the students, you are beholden to the retention and success rate of your courses to insure your employment.

Grade inflation is REAL. I know that you all have suspected it. Well, here’s the inside scoop, and feel free to turn it against us at any moment you know, because we love handing out As to incompetent fucks who feel that because they are paying customers they deserve good grades. Because effort = A+++++++++++++++++++. Or acting like you give a shit by wasting my time in class = A+++++++++++++++++++. The strict rubrics that administrators demand are only to cover the ass of anyone who claims grade inflation does not exist. But you know what’s fun? Suffering through grad school only to hand out candy-ass grades to talentless lazy assholes who view you as a servant and a personal assistant. You know, because you are paid to be one.

Keep your fucking hole shut in faculty meetings. If you’re even at them. Chances are there is at least one per quarter/semester that you are required to suffer through. You’ve heard that the squeaky wheel gets the grease? Well, here’s another reality to adjust to. The squeaky wheel gets blasted off the wagon and replaced by some rickshaw, probably you again but this time neutered. Every time someone complains about anything in a public forum, they will get fired. So shut the fuck up if you want money, slave.

And keep your fucking hole shut in faculty meetings. There’s nothing more fucking boring than some blow-hard who thinks that they are sharing some revolutionary teaching technique by first announcing “well in my class blah blah blah and it works well and students love it and blah blah blah I’m a fucking genius for thinking of this obvious/time consuming thing that only I could have thought of or implemented.” Great. Keep doing that. Repeat it to a mirror.

Don’t call me at home. Stop texting me. Dear student, your last minute computer meltdown is not my problem and I can’t help you. I’m not magic. Or God. It’s most likely that you are a fuck-up who can’t plan ahead and now want me to come up with some sort of magical reprieve that only applies to your very special faux emergency situation. Deal with your shit. Do not drop it at my feet. Figure it the fuck out. Show up prepared, or don’t. It’s your call.

Be prepared to eat shit. Students will say waaaay fucked up things to you, via email and to your face. You will have to suck that shit up, and fight the instinct to say, “I don’t have to take this from you!” ‘Cause guess what? You do if you want to continue to get paid. You, oh instructor, are the fucking adult in charge. So prepare to see delicious shit flinging tantrums of ridiculous proportions. And then calmly eat some shit and behave as if you have this dickhole student’s best interest at heart.

You will get stupider for having to deal with stupidity on a daily basis. You will lower your expectations to the extent that you may not notice the difference between the term “conversate” and “converse.” Be ready for it, because it’s a fuckin’ huge comeuppance after suffering through grad school or any professional job that might value competent communication skills.

Your senses will be assaulted. If you teach music, prepare to hear the worst most offensive shit over and over again. If you teach art, prepare to want to fork out your eyes. If you teach English, prepare to read the worst horseshit you have ever read. This will happen daily and it will border on abuse. Your brain will beg for mercy.

If someone else teaches your class, kiss that mofo good-bye, because it’s gone forever. But before we hand it over to fucking Barry over here who will be taking over the class that you developed, we’d like you to provide us with a copy of your syllabus and your assignments and tests. Because it’s required of you. You do want to continue to work for us, don’t you? Then hand over your hard work, so that Barry can  fuckin’ teach your class, or er, rather so that Barry can teach his class. Because it’s his now. And you’ll be teaching this other class that you need to develop so that someday Barry can teach that one, too. Asshole.

Your brain is a whore. You are only loved for your mind, the rest of you can go to hell (that’s why we don’t give insurance). What you know is worth money, and you should pass that knowledge along, shakin’ it in my face. Your sexy brain gives me a boner. You have been hired to do this, but it won’t matter if you put out because we’ll never marry you, you whore. God, you’ve got a great ass.

“What’s your name again? I mean, I forgot your name because you are so unimportant.” We had a two week break and I don’t remember who you are or that you have been teaching here for 5 years. I know that you were working on the committee for what-the-fuck-ever-extra-curricular-work, but… Well, you know, you’re part-time. You fucking cog.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Do whatever, because the only thing that matters are the numbers. Be fat, be ugly, be lazy, be smelly, be disgusting, be full of shit (and yourself). Just show up and cover the basics from the course catalog. As long as you smile a lot and pass out candy, or for some fucking reason string cheese, you’ll probably be fine. Hell, if you teabag some balls and hand out that fucking string cheese you may even get a promotion. Just don’t forget to do your fucking paperwork on time, or your ass will be handed to you in the form of a passive aggressive dismissal by way of an un-renewed contract. Compliance is paramount.

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7 comments on “Complaints About My Fucking Job.

  1. Keith Wayne Brown
    November 17, 2013

    wow

  2. hakesplace
    November 20, 2013

    Been there done that! I’m out! I’m out! Don’t want to go back to Room 1408….

  3. hakesplace
    November 20, 2013

    Room 1408–referring to 2007 movie with John Cusack.

  4. Pingback: The Charlatan in the Room. The secrets of your part-time professor. | modern disappointment.

  5. Geoff Worsley
    April 29, 2016

    Wtf!

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