Something's Fishy

And it is not a fish. Here's the situation: It is now three weeks into the semester--three glorious, talk about poetry for hours, dissect Tartuff and Don Juan, ponder the social context of Baroque architecture weeks at that--and I have yet to take a test. Quiz. Write a paper (for points). Anything for actual points. Nothing has been assigned for actual points. What's the problem in that you may ask? (Thinking to yourself, my, my, Bug certainly has it easy this semester, I wonder what sort of education they offer up there in that liberal haven.) Well, I'll tell you.

The professors have secretly banded together. They are plotting the exact date in which they will all assign their dissertation-length papers due on the same day as their every-little-thing-we-talked-about-or-even-thought-about-talking-about-in-class tests. They are reveling in the false sense of relaxation into which they have lulled us. They are hovering around around a hearth, praying over a blood, sweat, and tear mixture hanging in a cauldron chanting "Do your reading... Do your reading." They are dancing around a bonfire under cover of darkness, cackling and high-fiving each other. Sure, they come off nice at first; that's their scheme. No one else has figured it out yet, but then again, I'm above average when it comes to understanding conspiracies. I watch Alias after all.