Dear Wesleyan,
This is an open letter to the graduating class—or should I say, the agitating class— of 2040. I might be a hundred-year-old clone, and the fluid byproducts that have been gradually accumulating in my brain might be impairing my fine motor skills and ability to reason, but I’m positive that you are up to the same sexed-up shenanigans that you were at the beginning of the century. And frankly, making sweeping generalizations is one of the only activities that doesn’t make me dizzy. It’s a real pity that the “Pornocopia” class is still in the curriculum after all these years. That pornography class, the delight of pussy-wet professorettes and cunillingual co-eds, makes a mockery of a once proud and starchy institution. And I don’t say this simply because
here is half a string of anal beads from the 70s permanently impacted in my rectum. I’ve already forgotten why I say this.
What will the next tricked out addition to the Bubble’s course load be? “Ungendering the Robot Diaspora?” Maybe some enterprising students will follow in their previous peers’ footsteps and design a forum on Phallic Seismology. How’s that for intellectual experimentation! My spyware-infected johnson trembles at the thought. And yet the student body continues to revel in the Marxist, blue-jeaned former president Obama. For whatever reason, his bullet-train-explosion death does not yet resonate with you all. It was obviously an assassination, and your brand of navel-gazing, honor code, synthesizer, Birkenstocking, nudist education clearly blew up with our late Socialist. I’m happy to deliver the hint.
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