Excuse My French (Teacher)

It was the first day of second year French and it had been nearly three years since I'd taken first year French. I got to class 15 minutes early and sat down in the front of the class, excitedly awaiting the start of the semester.

Class time arrived and though the classroom was full, there was no sign of the professor. I watched as the analog clock at the front of the room slowly ticked off the minutes. 3...7...9...finally, 13 minutes late, the professor arrived! My excitement had reached a max. I couldn't wait for class to begin!

The teacher hurried to the front of the room and immediately my nostrils were assaulted by an awful odeur. His clothes were wrinkled and the armpits of his royal blue polo were sweat-stained. His face shone like a calm lake on a sunny day, but with scraggly trees sticking out of it. Yeah, this teacher needed to be schooled on personal hygiene. "This guy takes giving his students an authentic French experience way too literally," I thought. 

Le Professeur began class and it went pretty well, but students were gagging throughout. As long as we didn't look at him and kept our noses pinched (in order to produce a more accurate accent, we told him when he asked about it), we got through the first session without losing our lunch.

The teacher's last name was Elshob, but in study group we quickly started calling him "Professeur Le Slob." I sure hope I don't slip up in class...