Saturday, December 15, 2007

It's Not Nice to Make Fun of Subway Sandwich Artists. While You're Picking Your Vegetables, They Can Spit On Your Salami.

My dear students, I regret to inform you that we will not have a pizza party, or any sort of party for that matter, on the last day of class.

While I might be willing, on my most charitable day, to celebrate and dine with four of you at the most, in our final meeting I will feel physical elation at the idea of tossing the vast majority of you out the door of my classroom never to return. This is not to say I wish you any particular ill will; in fact, I hope you manage to achieve all your dreams with the little common sense the universe saw fit to afford you. However, I hope that you achieve them far from my future course schedule and, preferably, in another geographic location as the idea of your serving in a medical, judicial or educational capacity near my place of residence terrifies me to no end.

Furthermore, considering that the vast majority of you will squeeze your dense heads through the doggie door of the Academy with a whopping "C" in this course, I question whether you should find yourself celebrating at all. While the so-called "instructors" at the last intellectual morass you haunted might have awarded you with a deep-dish for not stapling your final portfolio to your forehead, take assurance in knowing that "not failing" does not indicate any sort of success in my thinking. I see no reason to celebrate your staggering mediocrity and, the more I think about it, I see how the concept of an obligatory pizza party predicated your level of performance in this course.

However, rest easy knowing that I will be celebrating with a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey as I enter your final grades, and once more when I watch in glee as you sear the skin on your tender, dainty fingers, unblemished by all that difficult page turning and key punching, on the steel pan you will use to toast my Subway Club in your future career as a sandwich artist.