Hot for Teacher essay writer sues school that expelled him for $2.2m
JOSEPH Corlett, 57, was booted out of Oakland University, Detroit, for writing the essay Hot For Teacher. He was inspired by the Van Halen song of that name. He’s now suing. He wants $2.2 million. Corlett, who now lives in Florida, has filed a lawsuit with the U.S. District Court in Detroit.
Corlett was taking the class English 380: Advanced Critical Writing. His teacher was Pamela Mitzelfeld (photos).
She is short, height/weight proportionate and brunette like my wife of thirty (30) years and introduces herself to spanish class as Argentinian/Italian. Omygod. Latin and Italian? Are you kidding me? Holy shit I should drop right now, there is no way I’ll concentrate in class especially with that sexy little mole on her upper lip beckoning with every accented word. And that smile.
No, I’ve never dropped a class yet, even Computer Aided Design where I earned my first “C” since resuming my college education in 2008. I’ll tough it out.
It’s tough to be a guy. I remember when riding my bike was suddenly pointless as all I thought about were girls. No money, no car, no social skills, and a face full of blemishes and all I want is a girl. My face cleared, I get a job a car and a girl eventually, but it was rough in between. Ladies, for pure sexual stamina, you’ll do no better than a fifteen-year-old male, but check your local age of consent laws before engagement. It sucks to admit but…
From age twelve to thirty the male brain is clogged by sex. It’s a wonder we can think at all. About [struck: a decade ago] twenty years ago, I’ll be 56 in November of 2011, the fog began to lift. It was refreshing to have some spare in my brain to think about thoughts other than sex. Like dropping from a hundred time a dat to just 20. What a relief, but you don’t get wood at the titty bars anymore. Small tradeoff.
I can’t believe I just wrote that but I did and it’s staying. I don’t give a fuck. It is what it is. I WILL NOT TEAR THIS PAGE.
My first battle with the hot for teacher thing, aside from second grade, was fought in Composition I at Oakland Community College. She was blonde and attractive in the Meg Ryan kind of way which I usually don’t go for. (Fucking preposition at the end of that sentence, Fuck it) FOR WHICH I DO NOT GO? YEAH, RIGHT.
I shouldn’t have taken her for Comp 2 but I couldn’t resist smart and pretty. I aced in both but that only encouraged me. Her skirt came unzipped in Comp 2 one day and her polka-dotted panties were exposed. I was a perfect gentleman and discretely told her to pull her sweater over. She smiled and thanked me. It is our delicious little secret.
(Intro transition here).
Then there’s Ms. Mitzelfeld, English 380. She walks in and I say to myself “Drop, motherfucker, drop.” Kee-rist, I’ll never learn a thing. Tall, blond, stacked, skirt, heels, fingernails, smart, articulate, smile. I’m toast but I stay, I’ll fuck up my whole Tuesday-Thursday class thing if I drop. I’ll search for something unattractive about her. No luck yet. Shit.
I’m in the student lounge an hour before class and slightly caffinated. I’ve had a few worries lately, the first that Lynn Anne, my wife, would read this. But now I don’t care. I suppose my fear is a good sign that I’m writing honestly.
The second worry was re-reading what I’ve previously written while drinking. It’s not as bad as I thought and I’m determined to keep the no-page-tear-out rule. I swear too much when I drink.
I’m not a maniac for every female although I try to find something attractive about everyone. My Women’s History instructure has the pleasant, no-make-up-don’t-dive-off-any-flirty-vibe, very similar to [REDACTED]. However, my history professor sets off my gaydar and [REDACTED] does not. I could not have sex with either of these women even if you offered me a million dollars cash. I couldn’t get the necessary cooperation, if you get my drift.
Spanish was the first class I’d even dropped since resuming my college career. With hindsight, it was probably my lack of consistent practice, not the lip-ridiing mold, that did me in.
A teacher, not Mitzelfeld, told him to stop. He didn’t.
Ginger or Maryanne? That’s the eternal male question based on the 60′s situation comedy Gilligans Island, where the glamorus [sic] actress and the buxom farm girl are marooned. When asked, my buddy George chooses Marianne without hesitation, while Tom pauses several seconds before selecting Ginger. I’ve always been a Ginger man myself but I think [struck: my Maryanne], Dr. Spearman, my Fiction teacher, may be my Maryanne as Mrs. Mitzelfeld is my Ginger.
Dr. Spearman has dark hair and eyes and occasionall [sic] rests her hand across her pregnant belly. However, it is her relentless teaching style I find irresistable [sic]. I’ve heard sled dogs will [struck: mush] run themselves to an exhurtive [sic] death withot [sic] counteracting by their [struck: driver] musher. Wiping the sweat from her brow, Dr. Spearman would teach until she dropped were it not for the requisite break and stop times.
She is hot, and not just from baking the bun in her oven. (TOO CLICHE?) When we’re alone after class, I politely told her I love her style. She admits to loving her job and appreciates my noticing.
Corlett’s attorney, Alari Adams, says the the essay is “a whimsical exaggeration of his attraction” to his teacher. Says Adams:
“In the end, he just ended up getting suspended from school for completing a homework assignment.”
Anyhow, $2.2 million for that dross. EL James has a rival.