As you may have noticed, I’m rather fixated on this Cassie Edwards thing, and Smart Bitches in general.
Newsweek has picked it up, and one of the people that she has “allegedly” plagiarized has spoken up. The guy isn’t an expert on Native American life. She’s opted to “allegedly” steal (covering my tush, thanks!) hotter material than that.
He’s a ferret guy. She stole from a ferret guy. How can someone in good conscience steal from a ferret guy? His name is Paul Tolme and the write up is here at Newsweek. He’s a wildlife journalist and wrote an article about how the US government was harming the small black-footed ferret population in an attempt to kill prairie dogs.
Not that stealing from tribal accounts is any better, but come on. From a FERRET GUY? Because, you know, ferrets are so damn important when the hot Native American guy is about to get it on with his hot, this-is-bordering-on-an-incest-kink, white foster sister.
His name is Paul Tolme, and apparently he writes some pretty hot ferret stuff. So hot, in fact, that it’s inspired people to rut like minks.
Or at least “borrow” like ferrets.
On a more scholarly note, I bumped into the Bear this evening. After his sitting on my email for over a week (I really was going to email him again, really, I just couldn’t stop pretending that I only had 3 classes this semester and it was sooo lovely), we narrowed a topic down.
It’s going to be something, something, something with Kate Chopin. I really like Kate Chopin. I could identify with her “Story of an Hour.” Apparently I get to read a lot of Kate Chopin, so I’m not complaining.
He suggested “The Storm,” which I haven’t read. “It’s pornographic, worse than D.H. Lawrence,” he tells me.
I try not to laugh, thinking how I put “cock and balls” purposely in my last paper for F-Dawg. I mean, I ONLY put that quote in there because of that phrase. Granted, it was relevant, about literary honesty and all that stuff, but my motivation was that singular phrase.
What’s more, I’m pretty sure that Dr. F-Dawg knew it.
One of my last papers for The Bear was about the witnessing of a castration-slash-lynching and the sexual … oddity…that ensues later in life. I’ve read D.H. Lawrence. I’ve read Anais Nin. I spend an inordinate amount of time in places reading what other people have to say about erotica.
I’m damn near impossible to offend. Really.
But I nodded and half-smiled, scrunched together my eyebrows, and just nodded some more. I tried to give a look of, “Well, gee, I’ll do it for academia,” but I’m not sure how well I pulled it off.
As he gathered his stuff up to leave and I started moving toward my next class, he decided we’d meet this week. Of course, I just got the book tonight, the complete works of Kate Chopin and I won’t even be able to start reading it til Thursday, since I have more of Henry VI and a short story and blah blah blah due.
But I bet you know which story I’ll read first.
Oh, and for the record, I’m still irate with Signet. I want to stab their “It’s okay” guy with sporks until he looks like a beef enchilada.