On Being a J3j3mon. Or Not. 1

A few years ago, Ting Ting Cojuangco decided that it was time to heed the call of the noblest of professions: to be a respected educator at an equally respected university.  So off he went, and dutifully applied at his alma mater.  He got accepted, not surprisingly, on the strength of his skill, charm, and solid backing from a senior faculty member.  On the eve of the first day of classes, he was so nervous with his prep work that he called me to share his jitters. I said, "You have the personality and the chutzpah. But most importantly, you have the fab wardrobe. You'll do just fine."

Fast forward middle of the semester.  Ting Ting realized he needed something more than the temperament, audacity, and the glam outfits.  What he actually needed was a whole medicine cabinet full of Advil.  I couldn't blame him.  Faculty politics aside, there seemed to be some sort of unspoken policy that the newbie lecturers should handle the most rotten classes in the department.

And most rotten they were.

Due to the proximity from the school, Ting Ting would often hang out at my place just to unwind and attend to the backlog paperwork.  I'd often end up helping him check the essays of his students.  I'd be pretty candid to say the papers weren't a pretty sight.  Come to think of it, they were downright atrocious. Period.

Considering this was a school that supposedly bred students of the coño variety, I was horrified at the quality of English I was reading - a lot of grammatical lapses and misspelled words.  Haven't these students heard of the F7 in Microsoft Word? If they did, couldn't they have at least bothered to run the spell check before submitting their papers?