What they say: 2/2 teaching load.
What they mean: It will actually be a 4/4 after two years of budget cuts and faculty attrition.
What they say: Some service work is involved.
What they mean: You will spend every evening and weekend answering emails and attending Zoom meetings.
What they say: We welcome all applicants.
What they mean: If you already work here as an adjunct professor, don’t even think about applying.
What they say: A Ph.D. in a relevant discipline is mandatory.
What they mean: We’re sorry, but if you are one of our adjuncts and you’re reading this job ad, can we respectfully ask that you log the fuck off? You’re not allowed to use campus Wi-Fi, and we don’t pay you enough to afford it at home, so unless you’re in your faculty office (i.e., Starbucks), we really don’t know how the fuck you’re even seeing this. Log off, asshole. Don’t you have three hundred essays on As I Lay Dying or some shit to start grading?
What they say: An excellent record of teaching and supervision.
What they mean: Wait, aren’t you that guy Steve or whatever who teaches that godawful “Folk and Fairy Tales” class that none of the tenured faculty will touch with a ten-foot pole? Get the fuck back to work, Steve! You’re wasting your time, and since we’re paying you $1,400 this semester, your time is actually our time, motherfucker. Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a dossier full of letters from students saying how great you are. Here’s what you should do with them, Steve-o: Print them out, put them in a huge fucking pile, and take a big old dump right on top of them. That’s all they’re good for, Steve! Wipe your ass with a few of them for all we give a shit. Then set the whole thing on fire. Fuck off.
What they say: Peer-reviewed publications and a five-year research plan are required.
What they mean: You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Steve. If you think anybody in the world gives half a flying fuck about your “forthcoming” (fuck you!) essay on Hans Christian Andersen and the “folkloric tradition” (whatever the fuck that means!), you’re even fucking stupider than we thought, and we already thought you were a pure fucking moron. Look, Steve, we’re going to level with you: once you agree to start working here as an adjunct, we own your fucking soul. That’s not a metaphor, either—it’s in your contract. What’s that, Steve? You didn’t read all the fine print? Tough shit, asshole. We’re sick of dealing with your bullshit, so we’re turning you over to our VP of Human Resources, Mephistopheles. Technically he’s the one who owns your soul, so try bitching to him for a change and see how far that gets you, you fucking dipshit.
What they say: Come join our diverse and inclusive department.
What they mean: STEVE, THIS IS THE DEMON MEPHISTOPHELES I AM COMING FOR YOUR SOUL TONIGHT AT MIDNIGHT, STEVE. BE AFRAID, STEVE, BE VERY, VERY AFRAID
What they say: Tenure-track.
What they mean: This job search will be canceled. Oh, and we’re looking for someone to replace Steve. Nobody has seen that fucking guy for the past three weeks.