The Dog Ate My Homework

By Lisabet Sarai



(Warning: this post is in dubious taste.)

I spend part of my time teaching undergraduates. Thus, as you imagine, I am very familiar with excuses.

“Why didn't you turn in your project?” I ask.

“I don't have a printer at home, so I couldn't print it.”

“My friend said that he'd submit it for me, but he forgot.”

“I was sick yesterday so I couldn't finish.” (Never mind that the class had a full four weeks to complete this assignment.)

“My grandmother had an accident and I had to take care of her.”

“My bus broke down.”

I am actually rather disappointed by my students' apparent lack of creativity. So far no one has claimed that he was abducted by aliens, or that his house burned down along with his homework, or that his girlfriend kept him tied up all weekend so he couldn't study. Hardly any of the excuses I've heard are sufficiently entertaining to support a blog post. So I guess I'll have to make some up.

Scenario 1:

Jack comes home from work early. “Lila!” he calls. “I'm home, honey! Where are you, babe?” He hears giggles coming from the master bedroom. When he enters, he discovers his wife naked, perched on the end of the bed, with Dan, the twenty-five year old son of their next door neighbor, crouching between her thighs.

“Hi, darling,” she says, closing her legs so fast that she almost takes off Dan's ears.

“Hello, Mr. Haynes.” Dan is already on his feet.

Jack struggles to keep his voice calm. “What's going on here, Lila?”

Lila looks embarrassed. “Well, you know Dan's in his second year of medical school. He has an anatomy exam tomorrow – I was just helping him study.”

***

Scenario 2:

Professor Darwin falls asleep at his computer. His devoted wife brings him some tea. She knocks on the door of his office, but there's no response. He's told her never to enter without permission, but she's concerned.

She comes up behind him, places the cup on the desk and kisses the top of his head. He stirs but does not wake. She smiles, relieved that he appears to be fine. She's about to sneak out when the text on the screen catches her attention.

“Beloved,

I cannot eat or sleep or think. I am consumed with need for you. My body craves your touch. I will not survive unless I soon feel your mouth on my breasts, your manhood ravaging my sex.

When you pace back and forth in front of the class, pretending to ignore me, I feel I will die of neglect. We must meet again, before I wither away. Come to me, soon, and let the fires of passion consume us once more.

Please, send me a sign that you still desire me.

Yours forever,
Sharon”

She pinches his shoulder. The professor wakes, sputtering. “Miranda! What are you doing in here?”

“I knocked,” she says, working hard to calm her suspicions. “You didn't answer.”

“Well...well...don't do it again...” He surreptitiously moves the mouse, ready to close the document.

“Wait!” Miranda cries. “What's this, anyway?”

“What's what?”

“This – love letter, or whatever.” Miranda's indignation rings in her voice.

Darwin shrugs. “Oh, that...um, well, that's part of the novel I'm writing.”

“You're writing a novel? Since when? Is it a dirty novel?”

“Of course not.”

“Sounds dirty to me.” Miranda gives a self-righteous huff and flounces off. The professor breathes a sigh of relief.

***

Scenario 3:

Marilyn is studying to be a sex therapist. This week's lesson deals with cunnilingus – physiology, psychology, history, variations, techniques, taboos, and so on. She dutifully reads the text book and studies the diagrams, lazily fingering her clit as she slogs through the dense material. If her boyfriend Leon were here, he'd undoubtedly provide some practical assistance, but tonight he's stuck at the restaurant where he works until past midnight.

She looks up, her head aching and her pussy throbbing, to see Bill, their golden retriever, watching her intently. A flash of inspiration strikes. “Bill,” she croons. “Come over here, boy.”

It's nearly one A.M. when Leon finally gets home. He finds Marilyn nude and barely conscious on the carpet – limbs splayed, face flushed, damp with sweat and other fluids.

“Baby! What happened?” Leon asks, helping her to a sitting position.

Her lids flicker over her glazed eyes. She barely seems to recognize him.

“Oh, the dog ate my homework.”

***

And for that, my dear readers, I'm afraid I have no excuse!