October 4, 2010
I can't stand the way they talk slowly or how they wear drab clothes the color of Winnebago interiors. I also hate being in their apartments, with dusty books strewn everywhere and a week's worth of dirty dishes in the sink.
I even hate their music because it's usually something grating, like free jazz or experimental techno. Gross. Come on, be honest: Have you ever heard a philosopher sing along to Katy Perry? Or the motherfucking Beach Boys? The most you'll get is a head bob along to R.E.M. because they were huge R.E.M. fans in college, the last time their esoteric tastes merged with the mainstream.
I took a philosophy class in college and my instructor, a bumbling grad student named Chad, had a ponytail. I hated his ponytail and daydreamed about shearing it off. I couldn't tell any of the philosophers apart: I didn't know my Kierkegaard from Kant from my Nietzsche. Our final exam was to debate the philosophical implications of molecular reconstruction if one is ever beamed to another location on Star Trek. Seriously. That was my final exam. (And people wonder why a Liberal Arts degree is worthless.)
Ever since then, I can't take philosophers seriously. If a guy tells me that he's a philosophy grad student, I frown. They're like hippies, but with thicker soles on their footwear.