Here at Hobbesian State, we have taken Vice Chancellor Clever Carl’s “Attendance-is-for-Proles” policy to its logical conclusion. Henceforth, by the power vested in me by the State of University, I hereby declare all quizzes, tests, raised hands, and final exams to be stupid. As all fully-formed and fully-functioning scholars entering this 20-square-mile lyceum understand, in the vaunted “real world,” all adults wear footie pajamas to work, as opposed to the piddling sartorial dictates of oppressive shirt buttons and confusing shoelaces. Obviously, what
separates you and, say, your cohorts at Oxford, are but the mere vagaries of letterhead and that pink fleecy “Fendin’ Hobbesies” hoodie your mom bought at the bookstore. Dad could have bought a book to set an example, but, alas, he’s 18 years too late. As a State Institution, our professors will now set an example and behave like state workers and bureaucrats. Who cares! We get paid anyway.
separates you and, say, your cohorts at Oxford, are but the mere vagaries of letterhead and that pink fleecy “Fendin’ Hobbesies” hoodie your mom bought at the bookstore. Dad could have bought a book to set an example, but, alas, he’s 18 years too late. As a State Institution, our professors will now set an example and behave like state workers and bureaucrats. Who cares! We get paid anyway. And while we are in accord that “neither sympathy nor pity” is forthcoming for absent scholars, why stop there? Let’s turn that academic amp to “11,” shall we? I hereby declare your in-class questions tedious and boring. How do I know? I too “graduated summa cum laude” and skipped all my classes, often to preen at my reflection in Echo’s pond on a pretty spring day. Why do you even show up? I could be working on my short game. Let your future boss hand your ass to you, I’m too busy being . . . Me.
Here’s your book. Here’s your schedule. And most important, here’s your tuition bill. If you can read the textbook without my guidance, my insights, and singular encouragement, all gained after four years undergrad, seven odd years as a PhD. candidate, and twenty plus years teaching this topic like I invented it, then you (and apparently, I) have no business being here. Run along now. Not dazzled by the bounty of “enrichment and beauty” oozing, dare I say pustulating, from my lectures? Then you are not my concern. You paid for this, so it is only fair that you dictate your own rules.
“Form committees, not character.” That is our motto here. I care only for perfect, pre-formed Hummel figurines for students. Oopsie daisy! Dropped one. No matter. They’ll make more. This “socially-retarded” notion that you may grow and mature in college, or in my classroom? Or that I should tell anyone what to do? Stop, please, before I wet myself.
