WW4.

Yo yo yo. You fellas have done finally turned it around. I like how you're all eating each other now, taking on each other - profo to profo. Good on ya. Rating those sweaty students was like shooting fish in a barrel. Much more juicy is the meat of a fine colleague than one of them stringy ass students.

I'm liking the new mission so much that I'm willing to rename the site right now to RoastMyColleague.Com. I figger it will catch on like wildfire, because there's nothing worse than a bunch of academics. I mean, do you ever go by the faculty club and see the losers in there? If they aren't wearing bibs, they should be. And lately I've been spending a couple of minutes each day hitting the academic blogs to see what's out there. I can barely contain myself. I end up snorting, retching, and peeing my pants so much you'd think it was 1975 and I'd just gotten back from an Eagles show in Riverside.

But I digress.

You got the crazzy asses all lined up, and I think we need to move on it pronto. Why not take one of the newest Kompound Kids and let her or him make a few more t-shirts and purses. Let 'em post the occasional student smackup to keep the charter good and legit.

But the rest of you dudes gotta get full time on the problems right here in Frailty Hall. I mean, what is it with the fucking cats. Every blog I go to has some child-substitute cat that is featured prominently. Some gasbag writes: "Mr. Majeepers made a poopie today, and he's so cute I just want to put down my research on Ayn Rand." Then there's a blurry ass picture of some cat so god-awful looking that if you saw it on the side of the highway you'd think it was the bad half of an armadillo.

Then there's the crazzies who are writing books, or MONOGRAPHS! They keep score on the word count like it's the Super Bowl of nerd-dom. "I have revised chapter 7, but chapter 4 keeps vexing me! With all of the strain and stress, I almost forgot to drink some expensive tea and to wear my spats to the modern drama class."

Oh, and I love those librarians who can't catch a break. Nobody tells them they're pretty. "Gimme a book, Glenn," is all we say. Well, Glenn, nobody told you to work in a service industry. If you didn't want to be treated like the guy who runs the french fry machine at Wendy's, you should have taken two extra science courses and gotten a real degree.

Oh, and English profs. They're delicious. English departments are where dreams go to die, right? I mean these English profs always have the nice Shakespearean fonts on their websites, a big quill next to their unbelievably white faces. They're always writing about how summer will bring them to England or Scotland, where they will trudge down some muddy trail to where Wordsworth once smoked a big bowl, or where Coleridge once ate a beaver because he thought it was Mary Shelley.

Science and math profs have such cool diagrams and shit on their pages. I'd make fun of them, but I have no idea what they're actually doing. I believe they believe they're doing important work, equations and shit. I love them for their lab coats. But they're only high on the food chain because of grants, and that whole grant world just makes me sick...we're all sucking someone's teat already, and I'll be damned if I'm going to beg some fey foundation for $7500 when I could instead just tell them to eat it and spend my summers shooting whatever animals cross the poorly constructed fence outside the WW ranch.

And I won't even get started on the whole insular world that is academic blogging, with all the above inanities tagging each other with memes. "I tag WonderProf and TeachingSuperstar with this newest meme: 5 authors you'd like to poke with a stick and 5 sexual positions you could get into where it'd be easiest to revise your un-sellable and boring dissertation."

Finally, a special shout out to those cretins on the job path. Oh, they are lovely, sweet dears, so persecuted, so incredibly sure that the system is out to spoil their chance at success...all the search committees have ganged up to find ways to make them unhappy, and when they do get interviews, they imagine senior faculty Stanley is flicking boogers at them, and not playing along with the modus operandi which is supposedly: "We welcome you and your intellect, and can't wait for you to show us how it's done, you 27 year old fucktard." Oh yeah, and the Super 8 hotel near the flyover state uni where you interviewed didn't serve you a radish and raspberry compote like you got at the grad school heaven you left 2 years ago, and some boor looked at your boobies during the campus tour and you're thinking of writing a long missive to the Chronicle of Higher Education forums about the trauma.

Oh, but I'm off track. I just want to say you guys have found the path to salvation. The students have got enough trouble. Keep going after each other. It's bound to brighten things up for all of us. At least those of us who are real Americans professors, sure of ourselves, not crouched in a permanent fetal position like 95% of our kind, standing strong, teaching it right, calling it crazzy when it's crazzy, and being real when real is like so out.