Saying Ms. Wumbershlact was a big lady is an understatement almost as massive as she was. She was two Hostess ding dongs away from being confined to a Rascal Scooter — and she stashed dozens of the cream-filled chocolate cakes in her desk drawer. I would often catch her sneaking bites from her pile of dongs in-between the heated, wheezing points of her lectures. The sheer gluttony required such a lack of shame, I would have almost respected her had she not been one of the worst people to ever waddle the planet.
She taught Women In Media 101. The required course focused on the cruel, sexist male gaze that permeated all forms of media and embedded itself into the feeble, unwitting minds of the public, who, in turn, “fat-shamed” and “body-hated” women into second class citizenship. In other words, it was a way for Ole Wumbo to justify the heinous crimes she committed against her own body on an hourly basis, ding dong by ding dong.
Wumbershlact was also afflicted with a terrible bout of strabismus, which kept her eyes permanently locked in opposite directions. I was convinced that she could see out of both eyes simultaneously, like an iguana.
I sat in the front corner of the room with my fraternity brother, Nick. We were located almost behind her desk. Still, one eye was constantly fixed on us while the other wandered freely about the room of 30 or so students. That damn eye saw everything. “The Eye of Sauron,” we called it.
“Oh… oh my, Mr. Frodo,” Nick once whispered to me in his best lily Hobbit voice, pointing to a handout with a picture of a Dove model. “There haven’t been beasts like this in The Shire for thousands of years!”
“Nick!” Wumbershlact bellowed. Her pupils aligned squarely on him for a moment, like an eclipse of the sun, before drifting back to their respective corners. “Please see me after class.”
Nick was constantly getting in trouble with Wumbershlact. She loathed him more than she loathed vegetables or light exercise. Nick was too prideful. Whenever we received an assignment, he couldn’t just bite the bullet and write “This Michael Kors magazine ad clearly poses the female model in a position of subordination to the male model,” or “I agree with Lena Dunham’s statement because…” He always countered every point she made, which is the last thing you should do to a hardcore feminist professor if you’re trying to pass. The friction between them was greater than the friction between Wumbo’s thighs during a brisk walk.
Nick wasn’t alone, of course. Wumbershlact was known for being a hard ass grader and making her students’ lives miserable, despite what should have been an easy class.
Then, one wild night, Nick got arrested for the third time that semester. He was awaiting a meeting with student conduct, which would surely result in his expulsion. I was surprised when I saw him stroll into class and sit down.
“Why even bother showing up?” I asked him.
“I’ve got a little parting gift for Miss Wumbo.”
“What is it?”
He leaned closer and lowered his voice.
“I’m gonna shit on her ding dongs,” he said.
“Shhh, sshhh… I said, I’m gonna shit on her ding dongs.”
Allow me to back up for a moment. Every class, without fail, Wumbershlact would excuse herself to go to the bathroom (that’ll happen if you inhale snack cakes like oxygen). This gave Nick a five-minute window to drop the cargo and get back to his seat before she returned from doing the same.
The class started out typically enough. Wumbershlact screened a TED Talk of a supermodel who revealed the shocking truth that she is just as insecure as other women. Before long, Wumbershlact excused herself, struggled to her feet, and left the room. Once her heavy footsteps had faded down the hallway, Nick unbuckled his belt and started for the desk.
“Wait,” I said.
I thought about Ms. Wumbershlact. I thought about her weight problem, her sight problem. I thought about how, at the end of the day, she was just a human being like any of us.
Then I tore out the photo of the Dove models from my binder and handed it to him.
“You’re going to need some TP.”
In one swift motion, Nick leapt on the desk, flung open the snack drawer, and dropped trough. The classroom gasped. He held up two peace signs as his face turned beat red, the veins in his neck bulging. Then a sigh of relief. A wet, plopping sound. Nick wiped his crack with the photo, threw it in the drawer, closed it, pulled up his pants, and hopped back in his seat before the first awestruck classmate could draw an iPhone. The deed was done, and it was done stealthily. Nick was a motherfucking poop ninja.
Moments later, Wumbershlact had returned.
A girl in the front row started to warn her.
“Miss Wu — ”
Before she could sound the alarm, another student put a hand on her shoulder as if to say, Don’t do it. This lady is a huge bitch, we all need this.
Wumbershlact sat at her desk. She turned to continue watching the video with the rest of us. The model on the TED Talk was now strutting back and forth on the stage, flipping her hair while proclaiming, “This is all you see… my body… but what about the real me?”
Then, Wumbershlact’s face began to wrinkle. She craned her fat neck, trying to suss out the source of the mysterious (and surprisingly cheesy) odor like a bloated Bassett Hound. The entire class was all eyes and ears and noses. Finally, her hand settled on the handle of the drawer.
The girl in the front row started to warn her again.
“Miss — ”
But it was too late.
Wumbo opened the drawer, shrieked, and fell backwards in her chair. The classroom gasped. She laid with her back flat on the ground and her legs straight up in the air. Everybody, including Nick, stared in disbelief, paralyzed with shock. Then, Wumbershlact attempted to roll over and get to her feet.
She rolled to the other side. No dice. She rolled back to the first side and used the momentum from that roll in an attempt to force herself over her mounds of excess on the other side. Close, but no cigar. She grunted and sweated and flailed her stubby limbs like an overturned tortoise for what seemed like an eternity.
She bent at the stomach and tried to sit up, but the girth of her fupa was too massive. Finally, she gave up and laid there, tongue out, arms and legs sprawled like a starfish, her massive stomach rising and falling and jiggling with each heavy, clogged breath. The juicy turd sat ripe and pretty in her desk drawer, soaking into her bounty.
“Oh my god, Miss Wumbershlact!”
Another professor burst into the room and grabbed a meaty arm.
“Don’t just sit there — somebody help me!”
A handful of us grabbed a roll and hoisted a red-faced Ms. Wumbershlact to her swollen feet.
The model on the TED Talk, which was still playing in the front of the room, concluded her starry-eyed speech.
“You are ALL beautiful… thank you!”
By the time the security footage was reviewed, Nick was on a bus to basic training..
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