Stupid Lemur.

I lucked out this term.

My Latin class is great.  They're a mostly intelligent, hard working, engaged bunch of kids whose worst sin is occasionally being lethargic.  Some of them are lazy, but they're smart enough to get away with it.  Those who can't easily pick up languages compensate by working hard. 

No one breaks the cardinal rule of being both lazy and stupid. 

Or stupid and arrogant.

They show up on time.  They learn things.  They ask questions. 

When they miss a day, they email classmates for the homework assignment. They spontaneously break into synchronized song/dance routines, just like in every Disney movie ever. Except - and you knew this was coming - for the Lemur.

It's not saying much that I learned the Lemur's name almost immediately, but it says something that the Wife has learned it, too.

Never before in my life have I met someone so absolutely oblivious of what a complete and utter nuisance they are.  The Lemur'll repeatedly come to class unprepared, then look shocked to be called out on it; ask stupid, irrelevant questions about the relative "coolness" of random fashion accessories; complain  about being denied a make-up test and then, not a week later, fail to show up for yet another exam.

From early on, I have tried to make it abundantly clear to the Lemur that I am unimpressed, that I find these antics unamusing and that I may be nursing in my heart a deep and abiding sense of hatred.

The rest of the class has picked up on this.  It is not difficult.  I am a very easy man to read and when faced with such repeated idiocy I do not tend to react subtly. 

The other students can tell when I am even mildly annoyed and for them a raised eyebrow or a couple words go a very long way.

The Lemur remains wholly unphased by this and gleefully continues racing toward its own destruction.

"Look!" shouts the Lemur, pointing at me.  "A snake!"
Every other student is high in the trees.  They nod.  "Yes, Lemur.  Snake.  Not to bother the snake."
"I will poke it! I will poke the snake!" says the Lemur.
I tilt my head, quizzically.  This is odd behavior.
"Lemur!  NOT TO POKE THE SNAKE!" the students yell.
The Lemur pokes me.  I twitch and coil myself.  Odd behavior indeed. 
"I poked the snake!  Look!  Now it is in a new shape!"
There is screaming from the trees "Run, Lemur! The snake does not like this!"  The others know enough to show caution.  Not this one.
"Why run? Snake is funny! Snake friend!"  The lemur pokes me again.  I hiss, loudly.  That should be a clear enough message.
"It likes it! Snake likes being poked!"
This one is not... like the others.  This one is 'special.'  Unique.
"Where's a stick?"
Oh god.

I hiss and puff and bare my fangs, but the Lemur remains oblivious, certain that we are friends and that I enjoy being poked.  One day, the Lemur will find that stick.  The Lemur will return and poke me with it.  And then the Lemur will get bitten.  It will be a hard lesson for the Lemur, I fear.

But an important one.