Academia blows like a frigging horn! Heh, you said "horn"...
An entire lifetime wasted on books, books and more books. What had he been thinking? Frank knew he was a genius, everybody knew he was a genius, and he'd done all the hard work himself, dammit, why should he write books and teach and share the information with people too lazy to find it out for themselves?
Total losers, the lot of them. But Frank? Man, Frank was a WINNER. Richard had been right about everything. Being a winner was the only way in this world and Frank saw it now. He was fucking AWESOME and soon, everybody would know that as well.
Even awesome people needed literature though; he wasn't turning his back on it entirely. Oh no, he was at the bookcase picking out some very particular pieces. Fag rags, to be precise. Which brought him to another person: Grandpa Hoover. There was another guy to listen to. Frank was just freaking MAD that he hadn't done it more when the sod was alive.
The bookcase, however, didn't seem to have cottoned on to his sudden lifestyle change, his seeing the fucking LIGHT, and he was getting more and more pissed off with every Marcel Proust book that landed in his hands.
"À la recherche du temps perdu?!" Loud was Frank's only setting now. "À la recherche du I DON'T GIVE A FUCK!"
After he'd shoved the damn case, the book went the way of all the others, tossed straight over his shoulder, out of his sight. There were about forty so far, scattered around the floor - Molière, Rancine, Balzac, Stendhal, Flaubert, Zola, Proust, Camus, Hugo, the list was endless. Giving up his search, he began kicking his way through the pile to the sofa, bored out his fucking MIND. He was meant to be teaching his Fundamentals of Composition class right now but what was the POINT? Academia blew, learning blew and since Frank was already a GENIUS and WAY 2 COOL 4 SKOOL he didn't need to waste his life anymore. It was for LIVING.
Sitting on the back of the couch in a suit with perfectly coiffed hair, Frank spread frustrated arms and yelled until he had no breath left. "I'M THE PREEMINENT FUCKING PROUST SCHOLAR OF THE FUCKING UNITED FUCKING STATES!!!!" He fell backwards onto the sofa, legs hooked over the back, head dangling just off the floor. "WORSHIP ME, LOSERS!"