March 19, 2007
Editorial: Why Are All of My Advisees On the 7-Year Plan?
By Horace Snelling, University of Buffalo Professor Snelling and his many leather-bound books
(Buffalo, NY)—Let me start by saying when I was in college, I did my fair share of wandering. You know that saying hippies love, “not all who wander are lost”? Well, my ass was straight-up lost, son: I drank every night of the week, had tons of unprotected sex, and smoked enough pot to kill a small horse.
But I still was able to matriculate in four years with my degree in philosophy and apply to graduate school. Hell, I still partied my ass off in grad school, and it only took me five years to get both my Masters and PhD.
But now that I’m a tenured professor, it seems like every one of my fucking advisees is like, on this seven-year plan, blissfully pissing away mommy and daddy’s tuition money and wasting my goddamn time.
Let me give you a couple of examples. We’ll start with one girl I’ll call ‘Stacy.’ Stacy took 18 credits her first semester, got straight-A’s, and had big plans to use her philosophy degree to like, become a nun and save the homeless or some shit. Then, about two years ago, she starts banging this low-life, and it’s been downhill ever since: her grades went in the can, she gained about twenty pounds, and most of her days are spent attending bullshit rallies like ‘Save the Mutant Squirrels’ at the statehouse. At this rate, she’ll graduate in 2017, and still might have to blow a dean or two before she walks across the stage.
'Bill' and friends, tearing down systems of oppressionThen there’s ‘Bill.’ Bill’s an anarchist, wears army boots everywhere, and talks incessantly about how corporations are ruining the planet. Nothing inherently wrong with that—we philosophy types are kooky by nature. Problem is, his old man is vice president at some huge oil conglomerate, so Bill uses his armchair activism and 1.2 GPA as his way to like, retaliate for a shitty childhood. Last semester, he took four goddamn creative writing courses, and only passed one of them. One. How the fuck do you fail creative writing? I could write a poem right now: my advisees suck, Lord knows it’s true; if I don’t get some rest, I might turn to glue. Bam. It’s that easy.
I’m not trying to be a jerk or anything. After all, college is a time of growth and experimentation—like that time I banged two chicks in the dorm shower. But as my granddad used to say, ‘shit or get off the pot.’ Speaking of which, I gots to jet. There’s a butt tornado ‘bout to wreck the faculty bathroom.
Labels: advisees, advisor, anarchist, University of Buffalo
