A record number of freshmen gingerly poked through the halls of Dixie State University at the beginning of the fall semester, questioning their decision-making skills and wondering just what in the hell they’d gotten themselves into.
“Is this for real?” they asked. “They didn’t tell us about the repeat ethical and civil rights violations. They just said ‘Trailblazers’ over and over, and our parents wrote a check. Did they fire all of the good teachers?”
As DSU’s inaccurately named class of 2020 reluctantly settled into its various dorm rooms and apartment complexes, it went through all stages of grief.
“There’s no way this is actually happening to us,” said the class. “This can’t be happening. Maybe we can still go to SUU or something. This is like living in mid-1800s Russia.”
As the class of, to be realistic, probably 2012 or 2013 or maybe never, moved through denial, it became angry about its situation.
“Fuck this!” shouted the freshmen, hurling a folder full of grammatically-incorrect syllabi against the wall. “I’m not wearing a shirt with a stoned buffalo on it! My tuition goes to pay a group of white-collar criminals who even suck at that! And all I get is a worthless degree from a glorified community college! I’d rather shart into a napkin and hand that to an employer than a resume with ‘Dixie’ on it! Goddamnit, why didn’t I go out of state!?”
Having broken down in tears, the students began to bargain.
“Maybe I can just withdraw from my classes and get most of the tuition back. It’s not too late for that, right? If I can’t get into an actual university this year, I can just take classes online at the University of Phoenix of something. Or I can just travel or work. Right? I’m sure Burger King is still hiring. At least I would get something useful in return for my time and effort. And it would be way less humiliating than this.”
Realizing the irrevocability of its situation, the now calmer freshman class slowly sank into a deep depression.
“Nevermind,” they told their parents on the phone. “I’ll just go. It doesn’t matter. Maybe I can get a master’s afterwards, and that’ll be the degree I tell people about. If they ask about my undergrad, I’ll just make a joke about Hamburger University or Trump University or something and change the subject. God, who am I kidding? How am I going to get into a master’s program after four years of living under DSU’s version of Sharia Law?”
Dropping the phone to the floor, the institution’s incoming class slowly faced up to its situation.
“Guess I’ll never get to take a class from Varlo Davenport like my older sister did after all,” they said. “She said he was the reason she came here. And I guess I’m going to have to start censoring myself at every turn. Jesus, I should have gone to BYU. At least it’s an actual university. I’m going to Pioneer Park to get drunk and smash some glass bottles.”