I was watching the steel structure of the School of Management addition being worked on yesterday, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.
There, amid the hardhats and the foremen, was a crew of liberal arts majors, chained to a girder, working. Over them stood a large, fearsome looking man, whip in hand, who lashed out at them whenever they tried to slow down.
That’s right – the SOM is using student slave labor to raise its ivory tower.
Not that way, you sicko.
The SOM is a plague; a horrendous cancer on this campus and it is growing. And it is using the pristine souls of liberal arts majors to do it.
I don’t blame the professors. It is not their fault. They’ve been captured too. Suckered in by the University with pretty pictures of bright young faces, all of whom want to learn about economics, finance and management, these brilliant people – and a lot of them are brilliant – have no idea that they are just cogs in the massive conspiracy that is SOM.
SOM, in reality, is not a specific college, like humanities (see, humanities…it’s even got human in the title, it has to be good) and fine arts. It is an evil plot, one that permeates the University to the highest level, and serves only to create division and faction the student body.
And they do it very well. Unlike the Commonwealth College, the organizers of the SOM cult realized that students don’t pay attention to what happens to academic buildings, only the ones that they live in. So it was easy for them to just plant a building on campus that would do nothing but churn out people that would become, in the words of Scott Adams, pointy-haired bosses.
Is it any wonder why people hate their bosses in corporate America? It’s because their boss is that kid that used to live down the hall from them, the one who played computer games every night and went home every weekend, the one whose only friends were the other societal rejects he found floating around on the Internet. While you were out meeting new people and learning about the history of ancient Greece, he was busy getting reprogrammed into a lean, mean, bootlicking machine.
Contrarily, the SOM and the Commonwealth College are both led, by the hand or forked tail as the case may be, into the greatness that is postgraduate occupational success. SOM cultists are given numerous opportunities to get jobs. The ruling council of SOM elders (which by the way, is comprised of, in order of descending rank: Satan, Bill Gates, Whitey Bulger, Mr. Burns from The Simpsons and Screech from Saved by the Bell) does everything short of driving the SOM faithful to the place of employment.
And I’m sure its just coincidence that “SOM” is the basic unit of currency of Kyrgyzstan. I’m not sure I know where that is, but I bet you it’s somewhere evil. I’m kidding; I know where Kyrgyzstan is. It’s that country in Risk from which you can invade North America. But the simple fact that SOM means money in Kyrgyzstan-talk is evidence enough of conspiracy. How much money, all of it from “private” – read: drug cartels – sources goes into that mortar and brick monument to greed?
Answer: more than I can add up on my fingers.
How much money has been spent on our four-bazillion dollar deferred maintenance bill? None. So while Joe and Jane SOM study at golden desks and walk through hallways carved out of diamonds, the rest of us try and find new ways to make our candles stay lit while we huddle it trying to study and keep warm at the same time.
And all you folk that are pre-SOM majors, here’s a news flash. I found a file that says project “Organ Donor” with all your names in it. That’s right, the SOM has no intention of letting you into the cloistered paradise that is Management. They’re only keeping you around for spare parts. Creating white collar clones is tough work, and whenever one of the SOM brothers and sisters pops a gasket, or in this case, an aorta, that’s when you get a phone call telling you that the dean would like to speak to you.
If this column sounds a little bitter, it’s because I am. I’m tired of watching Billy Bulger shine some freshman’s shoes because he’s an SOM major. Meanwhile, Billy’s staff car is parked on me and Billy’s driver, and Vice President Knuckles is telling me not to scream because the SOM kids are trying to study. I’m tired of getting stab wounds while sitting in decrepit auditoriums. I’m getting real tired of watching the University hand these arrogant prigs careers, while protecting them from any of the hazards of real life. I’m really going to enjoy graduation. I think History majors are being seated. . .yeah, I think we’re all going to be in Lederle. Meanwhile, the SOM cultists will be front and center, seated on Billy’s lap, waiting as livery coated servants present them with platinum diplomas.
Be warned! The SOM is all-knowing, all-powerful and completely devoid of any moral center. And it will win. We can resist, dear friends, but like my poor liberal arts compatriots chained to that girder, we will become its servants. So listen to me, fellow liberal arts majors. Do yourself a favor. Insult the SOM now. Make fun of it and its weird ways while we can. Because the all-too-likely future is that while today we call them jag-offs, we may soon be calling them boss.
