An Item From Fantasyland

The e-mail I want to write right now, in the language I would like to write it.

Liebe Frau Zink,

Your class is fucking boring as fuck. I don’t care about the fucking painter from WWII, I don’t care about the fucking walls that used to exist around the city, I don’t care about the fucking Bächle (as far as I’m concerned, they’re only good for breaking ankles), and I most of all don’t care about that cunting church. The only reason I signed up for this class was to hear a good story, but so far all I’ve heard about is that preachy Jewish lich. Speaking of speaking, you talk way too fucking much, and it’s a painful chore listening to you jaw on and on and on.

Fuck off and die,
Me

And here’s a quote I like from a comedian:

Our exams were open to public scrutiny, they were rigorous and cruelly fair.  If you got laughs you passed – if not you failed. Compared to these, the university exams were about as reliable a guide to a student’s ability as the width of his mother’s kneecaps, and I treated them with the nonchalance they deserved.
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