It seemed like Dec. 21 would never come, but after an orgy of time wasting orgies during my 25th hour, my time had arrived. I was to be incarcerated at the ""Grainger Building."" My punishment—finals.
If all goes according to plan, Grainger will not be my end, my prison break will come swift and efficiently. Any truancy officer who tries to track me will fail. I have spent the past month studying the hit TV docu-drama ""Prison Break."" With the Grainger escape route tattooed on my chest, I will escape finals.
As I walk into the testing room, I look at the knuckle of my left pointer finger. It says M38, meaning I just have to sit in that seat to take the super secret escape route, conveniently located under an ""Exit"" sign.
I burst into the hallway and rip off my shirt, closely examining my tattoo. It depicts Tom Cruise dancing in his underwear. I know this wasn't a drunken tattoo, but this aids in the escape, only... how?
I've got it! Tom Cruise is a scientologist, much like the hip musician Beck, who once composed a song where the refrain went ""I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me,"" the standard hand signal for ""loser"" is forming the hand into an L-shape, that's it! This hallway is L-shaped, and I need to get to the end of it.
One question creeps into my mind, causing a moment of self-doubt as I realize the plan might not work—just where in the ""L"" am I?
I realize I'm in the long part, by virtue of its length, so I run down the hallway and hang a left. However, the time wasted with self doubt has caught up with me, a truancy officer has started tracking me.
Luckily I planned for this contingency and start applying my camouflage. I tuck in my shirt, transforming me from art-chic liberal arts major into buttoned-down businessman. I then whip out my cell phone (on which I'd cleverly written ""BlackBerry"" in blackberry scented marker) and begin drawling in a zombie-esque fashion, ""Profit good! Soul slightly overrated!""
The plan works! I vanish from sight of the officer, but then I overplay my cards when I say, ""Let's save money by exploiting slave labor.""
A miffed Graingerian stares at me, ""That's not what we're about, you're obviously an ignorant liberal arts student who doesn't know how this school operates and are only here to take a test of some sort, which you're probably missing out on right now.""
Damn—my cover is blown, and very thoroughly, might I add.
With this pronouncement, the truancy officer was on me again. I looked at my right bicep and read my next clue, it was a picture of a grappling hook. This reminded me of the grappling hook in my right hand and I blasted it through the roof.
My escape plan coincides with some distinguished Grainger alumni meeting, so there's a fleet of helicopters on the building's landing pad. I hijack the prettiest (not nearest) one and yell, ""Take me to Panama!""
I think I'm safe, but Mr. Evil Truancy Officer thinks otherwise. While I was busy climbing my grappling hook, he had equipped his Grainger-issued jet pack and was flying dangerously close to my ride.
The officer says, ""Mr. Nelson, don't you realize that if you don't take the test, you automatically fai...""
We may never know what he was about to say, because before he could finish, the rotor slices off his head, knocking it cleanly into my lap.
Realizing I'd never have this chance again, I pour a mai-tai from the copter's mini-bar into the still-living skull of my one time enemy. Yum.
""Panama, here I come. Finals, there I go.""
