Pencil-Neck Pete, Part Deux

I teach HMST 3199, the Intro to Hamster Fur Weaving course, at Poor Cousin University. This course, in spite of having “intro” in the title, is a 3000-level class in a discipline that demands accuracy, precision, and critical thinking, so I front-load the class with a virtual shitstorm of small assignments and two major projects, all designed to build up students’ skills before they hit the big-ass cluster of group projects at semester’s end, which are worth 50% of their grades.

Pencil-Neck Pete is on his second trip through Intro to Hamster Fur Weaving. Last semester, Pete withdrew because he (a) had a bad case of senioritis, (b) missed most of the small assignments due to his being more interested in work than school, (c) in spite of being in a math-based discipline, couldn’t do the math to figure out that although he wasn’t doing well, he’d still likely get a B or C once the group projects came around, and (d) apparently forgot that his major requires him to pass HMST 3199. Thus, Pete didn’t graduate, and he had to take the class again. From me. Bummer, dude.

Can You Fix It?

"Can you fix it?" A fairly good question, widely used, innocuous and polite in most cases. A query that usually garners results. Even I, the bumbling Dr. Ballistic, have employed that very same phrase many a crisp autumn day.

"Can you fix it?" I ask the mechanic as my prehistoric jalopy wheezes in the garage, its death-rattles almost drowned by the bevy of shrieks and whines of other machines being worked on other cars. I mean yeah, I'm all prepped with a notepad, my pencil plucked from its throne behind my ear, to jot down its last wish ("I've always wanted a fuchsia hubcap, Ballistic") and indeed, the mechanic has already doffed his cap out of respect (or the heat), but I ask anyway. Wanna know why? Because I have hope; that old geezer's been faking deaths on me for a good decade, what's a few more? And because fixing fussy dinomobiles is the mechanic's diddling job.