I arrive at the pub a few minutes after my friend. It’s a Saturday night in mid-September and we’re taking advantage of the last days of reasonable warmth to sit outside in the garden. The garden itself, however, is showing the sad signs of being prepared for autumn and winter. Several of the tables towards the back are rendered unusable under the burden of RESERVED signs, their benches bent forward to disallow sitting for those who haven’t mastered Yoga. Two storage containers are sitting in the back right corner, and will no doubt store extra produce and perishables through the autumn and more perishable perishables through the winter. The place is a bit depressing, and I can’t unremember drinkers in summery T shirts and dresses sitting on those benches having loud conversations just a month ago.

I sit. The big bald waiter drops my beer as my ass hits the bench. I think him and he grumbles a complaint. With another waiter, I would appreciate this and see it as a comfortable familiarity. But with this guy I attribute it more to the fact that he wants to save himself a trip and has gambled on my order. If I told him I didn’t want a beer, there would be a major problem.

My friend is drinking a glass of wine, a carafe sits next to his glass. We chat about the fun things we always talk about: language, teaching, books, writing, nipple-size, life. A far-off goal for our evening is for him to help navigate me through the treacherous waters of a Czech bureaucratic application. I have to register a freelance working license for some writing and editing and I have to go to the building with the form accurately filled out to be sure to fulfill my goal of getting the license. Somewhat accurately, that is, because they are notoriously tricky. And somewhat sure to fulfill my goal, because bureaucratic offices are notoriously capable of finding problems. In this case it could be a problem with the application’s information, the adjoining documents, my visa, the clerk’s current mood, or the way my hair looks. When I was registering my new address a few months ago, there was a problem three times I went. It took my five times to get my new address registered. I once heard that five times is the average. It’s pretty accurate.

This report focuses on the problematic activity of three employees within the university system. This report gives suitable background, outlines transgressions in as much detail as possible, and recommends measures that may be taken to bring about the cessation of such actions. The actions here within took place during the week of September 9-13.  

Terence Beckley

Terence is a teacher of French literature and has been with the university for five (5) years. He has a masters degree in French, is CEFR certified as a French speaker at the C2 (proficient) level, and sometimes wears a beret (on Halloween). Terence has had many run-ins with the university for his continued refusal to get a PhD. Numerous meetings have been held with Terence by various university management staff in which were outlined (intricately) the benefits his PhD would have for the university. Sometimes with charts. Despite this intervention, Terence has maintained that he “doesn’t want to.” On September 10, Terence was overheard to say “Man, I’m not much for this academia stuff.” In English.

Possible recommended actions include the university placing a required daily quota of French language on Beckley, perhaps 2,000 words. Further intervention could involve a “baguetting,” which is a form of punishment championed by Steven Seagal, but banned by the EU in 1999.  

Jim Tooms

Jim Tooms is a bachelor-degree holding ESL teacher at the university. He is an editor for the university political science journal and a “big fan of Jeopardy.” Jim’s infraction is having a bachelor’s degree as he did on September 12, the day in question. On September 12, Jim was seen in the Foreign Language Department meeting having a bachelor’s degree. He ate two (2) prewrapped biscuits at the meeting (cinnamon and hazelnut) and had one and a half (1 ½) coffees with artificial sweetener (AS). It is suggested that Tooms has taken more than he has contributed to the university.

Recommended actions are to monitor Tooms’ intake up through and including the Christmas party. At the Christmas party if he takes more than the bachelor degree provisional quotient (2 16 oz beers or 4 oz glasses of wine, four cookies, two slices of ham or one pork neck, a 10 oz bowl of vegetable salad, and one pocket diary as per the university’s Christmas gift) then his pay should be docked and he should be sent to the salt mines.

• This recommended action requires the purchase/development of salt mines.

Numerous

Numerous other employees within the university system have been observed expressing antisocial, anti-university, and anti-academic sentiments. These actions and sentiments include correcting another professor, answering a student with “sure, no problem” as opposed to the more acceptable “it shall be decreed.” Others were observed watching a gangsta rap video on the “YouTube” and sitting back and closing one’s eyes.

Recommended actions are to scold them, dock pay, or send for rehabilitation. If none of these actions work, the university may want to consider burning this fucker down.     

Learn from masters (some of whom you’ve never heard of) who didn’t take the missteps in life that you did and who also need to make a quick buck.

Jeff Sessions teaches being thrown under a bus after destroying a democratic republic.

CNN teaches obsessing over your biggest fear. But you know, it’s cool.

Justin Trudeau teaches not being so bad in comparison (four guest lectures by George W. Bush)

Masterclass.com teaches saturating a market until you’re a meta joke in a humor article.

Jonah Hill teaches abandoning comedy to discover art. I guess.

JK Rowling teaches developing after-the-fact backstory.

McSweeney’s teaches writing articles whose humor hipsters everywhere are too scared to admit they don’t understand.

Donald Trump teaches constructing matryoshka dolls.

Tom Brady teaches the art of he has to have sold his soul to the devil, right?

George Orwell and Kurt Vonnegut teach telling you so (special twofer from beyond the grave rate).

Robert Downey Junior teaches being unrecognizable to your former self.

Keanu Reeves teaches being internet memed to the successor of the incarnation of Avalokiteśvara, Bodhisattva of Compassion to the Dalai Lama.

John Legend teaches getting other people laid.

Jaden Smith teaches being a philosophical prodigy, a comic genius, or certifiably insane.

Barack Obama teaches being a weekend dad to 200 million exhausted people.

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez teaches being right while infuriating the other 100 million.

Steve King teaches evolution not necessarily leading to a more developed species. In Iowa.

Melania Trump teaches ineffectively blinking a distress signal on television. Because she speaks four languages, but one of them apparently isn’t Morse code.

Noam Chomsky teaches being the number one most misunderstood person referenced around kegs in college apartments.

Anderson Cooper teaches being too good-looking to distrust.

Netflix teaches making comedy instantly available to almost everyone and enjoyed by almost no one.

Joe Rogan teaches being a podcasting demigod to men ages 20-45.

Marc Maron teaches being a podcasting demigod to pessimistic men ages 20-45.

I’m about to get on my flight from Philadelphia to Prague. Besides the fact that I’m leaving my family, everything is grand. I have had two beers which totaled $23. But the bartender was a nice guy and I got to watch football before being shipped back to a place where football is played by a bunch of guys kicking a ball and falling down in tears at a nearby gnat.

I’m used to being annoyed at the airport. People seem to leave a great deal of their IQ points in the car that dropped them off. But today, everything is smooth. The lines are curiously short, nobody has tried to cut in front of me in said lines, and everyone has been very nice. Hm.

As they begin boarding, I decide I would like to see if a change to my seat is possible. I am a middle seat and boy am I ticked about that. I am the only person in line. I approach the woman. I smile. The two beers I’ve had were made exponentially stronger by their price.  

“Any chance I can be moved to an aisle?”

She looks.

While she looks I explain that I don’t really mind if they can’t move me, it’s not a big deal. I am lying.

“Well sir, they’re going to charge you to change seats…”

“Ah.” I am already shrugging and raising my eyebrows to show her how cool I am with that news.

“But,” she says, casting a glance hither and yon, “it’s not a full flight. The aisle seat next to you is empty, so just sit there.”

“Oh, thank you.”

One can see instantly that the plane will not be full. The groups are tiny. The man boarding the flight has to double up groups 3 and 4. He looks a little embarrassed, as if he’s having a party nobody has shown up to. The guy in front of me is roughly sixteen feet tall. He turns to me.

“Man, am I missing something? Nobody’s here.”

“I know.”

We are on the plane in a matter of minutes. I am so relaxed I forget to do my flying ritual wherein I kiss the plane and say a little poem to her. I take one step backwards off the plane and do that. But it’s a bit forced.

The sixteen foot tall guy is sitting directly in front of the aisle seat in which I’d like to switch. He’s already got his seat leaned as far back as it can go. If I sit in the seat behind him I’ll be able to braid his hair on the way to Prague. Aha! Something to be annoyed about! The flight attendant sees this conundrum and stops.

“Oh…” she scans a tablet. “Sir, why don’t you go up to seat 12C. It’s an aisle and it’s free.”

“Thank you.”