Yo, Everest College...Y'all Don't Know Me

Look.

The next time some crooked-hat slacker yokel starts yelling at me from one of the four channels i get on my TV about how my life is passing me by because I haven't spent a small fortune to sit in an uncomfortable chair in the classroom of some half-assed, new-age DeVry where the only bit of amusement or stimulation i can find comes from my internal giggle at the stammering professer's chalk-covered eddie bauer sport coat i'm going to elvis the fuck up and bust-a-cap-in-that-glass like it was broadcasting robert goulet in a post-coital scene beside my own mother.

deep breath.

I worked all god damned day. I was on my feet for 9 and a half hours, just like i was the previous 4 days. I come home and i want to take off my boots and loosen my tie a bit (but not so much that it doesn't remain to look fiercely stylish on me). If i choose to sit down on the couch that I OWN, and watch the tv that I OWN for a minute so i can catch some jeopardy and stimulate my mind before i become another of the countless middle-class drones of the barely-veiled slavery doctrine that in one way and another and another lines the pockets of 10% of the population who use that money to further become the bane of our culture, the embarrassment of our species, and the destroyer of all life.

A 20,000 dollar piece of paper that says i'm qualified (paid) in (from their actual website) "Medical Insurance Billing and Coding" is going to put me right back here, on my couch, soaking my proverbial bunions to the soothingly endless card-read knowledge of alex trebek. After working the same amount of hours in a day, for the same amount of money, in a field that is so far from medical insurance billing and coding that it might as well just mean i have a degree in Life Fucking Up Via Massive Debt and Terrible Decisions (made at the exact moment i would ever have considered ANYTHING the TV tried to yell at me in the first place).

School is for learning. The workforce is for careers and applied knowledge.

Take your father's credit card down to the hallmark shop and buy him an apology note for all those nights you spent hitting the bong in front of family guy re-runs at your everest dorm room, where, ironically, you cheered every time that outdated-facial-hair-30-something-portraying-20-something-pop-collared-spokesbro popped up on the screen.

p.