You'd think that with well over 30 years of college teaching experience behind me I'd have some precious memories stored away, but I don't.  You'd think I'd remember the students, the fellowships with other professors, or maybe the special high points of a long career in higher education.  Nope, don't remember that either, unless you consider a shouting match with an administrator a special event.  I do have this one special moment to share with you.  I was sitting in the dean's office one morning, listening to him chide me about the use of improper language in my classes, and I had this epiphany as to who or what higher education administrators really are.

Yeah, I'm sitting there looking at this little dweeb - pale skin, sunken eyes, tight drawn mouth, big ears, and dull eyes - building a mental image of me standing on his desk pissing on his bald head, and I suddenly realize that this little twit is a clone.  I knew that for sure because I'd never even consider pissing on a real person's head, at least not while he was sitting behind his desk in a fancy padded leather chair.  The chair in my office was oak, no pad, just a hard chunk of wood.  But the dweeb had a padded leather chair . . . and he was just a clone and nothing more.  It's not improper to piss on a clone, is it?

He must've caught the slight smirk on my face because he said something about how I should take the matter at hand more seriously, but I really didn't hear much of what he said.  I never listened to administrators, and now I knew why.  They aren't real people, just clones, and nobody in their right mind would take anything a clone says seriously.  But still, this clone kept talking, looking angry now, and tempting me even more to whip out my pistol and start firing at him.  Again, I saw myself standing over him, taking a whiz on his head.  I fought off the impulse to do just that and had to look down to conceal my smile.  He was talking louder now, trying to make it hard for me to ignore him.

I'm thinking, I wonder where they clone these jerks?  That thought seized me, and I started imagining a place somewhere down around the state capitol where they did it . . . like maybe in the basement of University Hospital.  Yeah, that must be where they did it using parts from the recently deceased street people nobody would claim.  But where did they find brains for these clones?  Then it hit me - they came from dead child molestors, rapists, and various other assorted sexual perverts.  It had to be that way.  That would explain why they were always wanting to fuck somebody around.

He was talking louder now, even stood up and started pacing.  My only thought at that point was that the pacing would make it more difficult to take a whiz on him, if I indeed lost my fight to control the urge to do exactly that.  Then I remember that this little shitheal was responsible for me not getting a raise the previous year.  My contract had been renewed but with only a slight cost of living increase . . . and he was the cause of that . . . and now he was chewing my ass out for using four letter words in my lectures.  I looked up at him just in time to see him approaching me, clearly angered at my lack of concern for his protests. 

And then it happened.  I suddenly found myself standing on his desk . . . pissing on his plush leather chair.  I was amazed at my own bravado, but there I was, urinating on his chair and laughing my ass off.  He was flying around the room like a goose, flapping his arms and squawking like crazy, shouting at the top of his lungs.  I kept laughing, and finally his secretary came to his office door and looked in, saw what I was doing, then ran out screaming at the top of her lungs.  It seemed that I'd really saved back for this one because the stream kept coming until the chair was thoroughly drenched . . . and since it appeared that I had some reserve left, I decided to pee on all the papers on top of his desk.  I did that and was in the process of filling up his briefcase when campus security came in and restrained me.  I didn't fight them.  I knew it was over for me.  The incident would force me into immediate retirement, with full retirement pay and even special treatment for my emotional disorder. 

And then . . . I wake up.  SHIT!  Was it just a dream?  No, no, no, it can't be just a dream.  I can't have another full year to go before retirement, not two whole semesters before this misery ends.  But as I stand up and look around, and I see the familiar surroundings of my office, even the hard oak chair I had dozed off in, I know it was just a dream.  At first, I felt a little sad that it wasn't really true, but then the humor, the craziness of it all struck me.  I had just pissed on the dean's precious leather chair, and on his papers, and in his briefcase . . . and it was the best damn wet dream I'd ever had.

I'm retired now and long gone from that job.  I dream good dreams these days, not about pesky deans and shitty jobs.  But I still remember my last wet dream, and like they say in Texas, pard - that ain't no shit!

D. Paz, 2/14/08