The Goat Man

I have a professor who looks like a goat. Like Dr. Dillamond from Wicked. Luckily, he doesn't have hooves for hands or we'd have a real problem, here. 

The Goat man, as Jessica, my fellow English major, calls him, gave the lecture today for my Shakespeare class. 

I have no idea what the lecture was about. The lecture was supposed to be on As You Like It. This man's topics of discussion ranged from cliches, to beards, to feces. There was also a point where I honestly couldn't tell you if he was speaking English. I think it might have been Dutch, but it could have been English. I'm just not sure. 

This is the same man who, two weeks ago during my seminar about women writers during the Restoration and the 18th Century said something along the lines of (and he was dead serious), "This woman's writing is interesting, and for a long time it was forgotten, so I guess some good did come out of the women's movement." 

(Let me clarify that this statement implied that this was one example of the little good that came out of the women's movement.)

I'm pretty sure my jaw had dropped to the table at this comment. 

"Pop!" went the Scripps bubble. 

All I wanted was an angry mob of Scrippsies to barge through the door with torches and pitchforks, pick him up and carry him to the bank of the Thames for a little swim. 

He's one of those old men, those old British Literature professors, who is incredibly intelligent and respectable in terms of his expertise, but is stuck in another era. He's like a walking time capsule whose constantly wearing the same plaid coat fully equipped with leather elbow patches. 

Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on him; but, still, I miss Peavoy and Kimberly Drake.