It’s My Birthday, I’ll Judge if I Want To

Last night was my last class of the semester. It was also a class that has provided many frustrations and laughs throughout the past three months and I’ll miss all of the characters who brightened (and seriously dimmed) my Thursday nights. In light of never seeing many of them again, I’d like to dedicate this blog to one classmate in particular who I shall call, “Deeb” (Short for D-Bag).

On the first day of class I had the pleasure of sitting next to Deeb and reveling in his charming accent, slicked back hair and oddly placed three-piece suit. He is hobbit-sized, therefore non-threatening so I immediately struck up a conversation. He shares a name (his real name) with a 90s rocker and I made some stupid joke about the two of them. He laughed and shook his head and that was the end of our brief friendship.

Upon returning to class the following week (I’ll be honest, it was three weeks from the first encounter), I chose a seat in the back of the room and closer to some people I thought I might enjoy. I was right. The back of the room ended up being the designated “sane person” area, save for a few scattered normals in the rest of the classroom. It was from my post in the back that I would continue to observe Deeb and slowly build on my fiery hatred.

Never breaking out of his habit of over-dressing, Deeb showed up every week in a suit and sometimes added a hat from the early 2000s. He started every sentence with the word, “actually” in that odd British accent of his and had a “fun fact” for everything we never asked about. I grew increasingly annoyed at his penchant for chiming in with an “I bet you didn’t know…” factoid every class period but it wasn’t until recent weeks that I truly grew to hate Deeb.

It was brought to my attention that Deeb is not British, like he had led us all to believe. He isn’t even foreign. He’s American. He did, however, spend a semester abroad and apparently can’t shake the pretentious accent he picked up. When I heard this about him I was legitimately mad. I had said things to him in class about how people will listen to whatever he has to say because he sounds charming. He just smiled and nodded and went about his business. What a DEEB! I mean, I get that he’s short and kind of looks like Elvin, Sondra’s husband from “The Cosby Show”. I get that he might need something besides the overdressing to distinguish himself from the other uninteresting twenty-somethings wandering campus. I get it. But really? A fake accent? Come on. He may have even picked it up honestly while he was there. I get that. I pick up accents in about three minutes flat but they don’t last for the rest of my life. They stop as soon as I’m no longer surrounded by people who speak like that. Because I’m a human girl. Not a d-bag robot who has his language and speech programmed irreversibly.

Rockin' that Cosby flava

Rockin’ that Cosby flava

On top of the affected accent news, I learned that someone in class (no idea who) had been equally annoyed with the weekly onslaught of factoids and started writing them down to fact check via google after class. As I suspected, everything that comes out of his mouth is bullshit. Last night’s first quip was a lesson on how an apple contains the same amount of caffeine as a cup of coffee. Does an apple contain natural sugars that will turn into energy? Yes. Does an apple have caffeine? No. Absolutely not. It’s an apple. Did we ask about the possible caffeine content of fruits? Nope. We were drinking tea, however.

My final impression of Deeb was during his group’s presentation on the music of American minorities. His contribution was about Mexican and Tejano music and how that later led to country music. Fair enough. It sounded interesting. The other members of his group played clips of music to supplement their explanations and that served us just fine. Deeb decided to play an instrumental version (by choice) and sing along in poorly delivered Spanish. He sang. Out loud. On purpose. He sang. And it was SUPER awkward. I didn’t know where to look.

Thank Gos that class is over. I will miss laughing at all of the weirdos and judging in my back corner with a few select people who shared my sideways glances. But I will not miss Deeb. He made my life worse.

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2 thoughts on “It’s My Birthday, I’ll Judge if I Want To

  1. Miriam says:

    lol, it seems like there is one person who is extremely irritating in literally every class I’ve taken–what irritates me most is when that person constantly poses their super fascinating tidbits (sarcasm) as questions, when it’s really just a way to make themselves look so well-informed. I don’t think I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear/see someone sing in class, however. That is awful. Nice rant!

  2. bettiestamp says:

    Agreed! I was talking about the Eastown neighborhood and the problems that come along with turning it into an upscale shopping area and Deeb said, “Actually, isn’t that called ‘gentrification’?” UGH.

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