You don't have to go to college to comment, but you have to comment to... comment about college. Today we listened to a Harvard bedtime story, and one inspired commenter wove his own little tale. It is after the jump.

"So there we were, my Hah-vahd friend and I, bored out of our heirloom-quality gourds and looking for a little slumming. She swung her glossy hair (she does this a lot) and said "What about Tufts?"

I replied, "Dar-ling. Soul patches are so last year."

"Not on your face, ninny. The (heh) skewl"

"Oh." I thought a moment, then: "Oh!"

The vision of a coal-stained slattern with mall bangs and clothes from Macy's heaving ‘neath my patrician buttocks was all I needed, and doubtless Muffykins was dreaming of a dock-walloping bohunk who majored in what passes for Lit at Tufts (Jackie Collins and Dean Koontz) doing the same for her.

We hopped in a poor man's limo, chatting amiably of Gruyere and the significance of the can-can in modern dance to the peasant driver. At length we arrived at the slums.

It was absolutely Dickensinan, I tell you, but the peasants were a bit of a snooze.

We expected to see Mandingos tearing the polyester bodices of trollops from Teaneck to the rhythm of a jungle beat. We expected farm boys defiling girls on haystacks to the tune of "Dueling Banjos". We expected ghetto girls mad mackin' their pimps, begging to be ‘hos as The Mary Jane Girls rocked the shizzle.

We wanted "Jersey Shore". What we got was "Family Ties".

When we returned, unsatisfied as we always are, to our den of ennui and anomie, we reflected: Tis the journey, not the destination, which teaches.

Hmm. What does that mean anyway? It sounds so pedestrian."

— BettyCrocker

Veritas.