We love you, Professor!

More FCN history: the first class note with primary focus on what happened in class.

The prof in this particular class is a busy woman. She does battle with the state. She made Arnold beg for mercy the day. She can talk faster and shriller than Nancy Pelosi and has a personality that would make even Samurai Jack run for cover.

The class is supposed to run from 2:30 to 3, but she had to leave at 3:30 for a personal duel with Barbara Boxer. She announced this at the start of class and we all shed crocodile tears.

At 3:30 sharp, she rose and pulled a key from her pocket. "You all need to stay here until 4," She said. "I'm giving you the master key so you can let yourselves out. Promise to be good, don't break anything ... other than that I don't care what you do."

We nodded studiously. The door closed behind our beloved prof. After several seconds of waiting to make sure she was truly gone, we all burst into dancing, song, and merriment. After a short, friendly scuffle (during which one student, clutching the key, was thrown out a fourth story window into oncoming traffic below), we broke into the prof's adjoining office and raided it. Papers, files, records, writing stuff ... we changed our grades to As and kept looking.

We broke open a locked file cabinet by putting the desk on it and smashing it several times. Inside, to our glee, we found a bottle of absolutely premium vodka.

After a short and friendly scuffle (during which four people, their bloody fingers wrapped around an empty bottle of vodka, were hurled out a fourth story window into oncoming traffic), we decided to settle down and be more civilized. Some ingenious geek hooked an iPod to a cell phone and put it on speakerphone. The sound was remarkably good - and loud.

We cleared the room of desks by pushing them out the window into oncoming traffic. Then we danced - and danced - and danced. When we finally stopped to catch our breath, we heard a furious pounding on the door.

"Who is it?" Asked Racquell, a go-getter in the class who knew I was going to be posting about this and insisted I put her name in.

"Professor Skinner," Answered Professor Skinner. "Here for the six o'clock class on Juvenile Delinquency."

The next few seconds were a blur. I'm not entirely sure how it happened, but over the course of several seconds and a short scuffle, thirty college kids leapt from the fourth story window into oncoming traffic. I was lucky enough to land on the back of a semi-truck that had slowed to slog through the large pieces of desk littering the road. From there it was a short and painful hop to the ground. I sprained my ankle and kept running as if nothing had happened.

I was late for my Social Services class. In fact, all I had time to do was open the door, sit down, and catch my breath before class let out. I stood and confidently asked the professor: "Can you change my absent mark to a late mark?"