Trust Me, Trustee

Dear Trustees,

The time has come for my brief foray into the wild world of academia to end. I sure enjoyed living the high life as a professor. It finally gave me a good reason to own more than one corduroy blazer. But let’s be frank, this hasn’t worked out. Though you should all know that I didn’t arrive at this decision lightly. I thought about it for a solid fifteen, maybe twenty whole minutes before firing off this letter. More than enough time to peel my parking sticker off my rear window and hightail it out of town.

That said, there’s plenty of blame to spread around. And like a knife covered in chunky peanut butter, spread I shall. Think of this portion of my resignation letter as a beautiful homage to Jefferson’s underrated section of the Declaration of Independence. You know the one where he tallies up all the King’s sins and lists them in brutal detail. This is that, but pettier.

I’d like to first blame the school’s landscapers. What’s the issue with crabgrass? You’d think it was some ancient omen or a deadly poisonous plant the way every gardener on campus tugged at its roots with such maniacal glee. We’re not living on a golf course, so fairways have no place here. As far as I can tell, we don’t even have a golf team. Just a lot of stupid clubs.

The dining hall needs to be overhauled entirely. If I wanted a tray with my dinner, I’d deface one of the many monuments around town and end up in the clink. Why? Because the aluminum trays provided by the state’s department of corrections are far superior to the plastic trash cycling through this place. 

The mascot is a cherrystone clam. Wonderful, I thought at first. I figured I would like that. I thought I would appreciate it. But why even be a bivalve if you’re only ever closed? It’s like putting a door on a business that never opens and deals only in mail-orders. What’s the point? I always thought clams were a representation of the best of us, opening themselves up to the world in unapologetic glory. But not here at Turbo Tax U, erstwhile Chair-Latin. Aren’t we supposed to teach students to be more open-minded? What does it say about us if our mascot can't even open up for a chowder-loving prof? 

My fellow teachers. What can I say? You hardly welcomed me. While I didn’t have the pedigree, nor the PhD, my time here was spent rolling a massive rubber band ball through the halls. When the bands reached their limit and broke, you were there to clean up the supposed mess. That's not what I wanted. 

The students aren’t without sin either. They slept through most of my seminars, which is fine on occasion. During a standing room only guest lecture from Mike Lindell, slumber was practically mandatory. Although the glisten of his gold crucifix made it impossible to sleep without the aid of a tight sleep mask. 

To Francesco the head janitor, thanks for all that bleach that one time. I don’t know where I’d be without it. Okay, so maybe I do. I’d be eating off an aluminum tray right about now. Everything happens for a reason, right? 

I’ve saved you trustees for last. Whenever I asked for cash, you recoiled in horror, rifling through your pockets for a spare, crumpled twenty. I don’t get it. What’s the point of paying someone a living wage if you can’t also buy a boat? 

While I may be leaving the ivy towers of a small, financially insolvent institution, I’d like to leave a lasting legacy for future classes yet unborn. Given my months of service, I’m asking you to install an honorary chair in my name. An actual chair . I’d like it to be Herman Miller or something comparable. The pricier the better. Anyone can sit on it and roll around campus at their leisure. A good reminder that the best things in life can be accomplished sitting down. 

I’m leaving around noon to beat the traffic. My trunk will be open with room to accommodate my hefty cash severance. 

Thanks in advance.