It’s John E. Thrasher, your president.
You might’ve just woken to news that your campus is covered in a fresh dust of snow, and it’s true; as I sit here, counting my year-end bonus by the roaring fireplace in my office, snow is indeed falling from the sky.
Before you shake your head and say aloud, “Well, if we had class, we would’ve had a snow day,” let me be clear: no, you fucking wouldn’t, and yes, from the fireside it would warm whatever organ beats in my chest knowing you all would be slipping and eating shit on Woodward Avenue.
It’s the serenity that snow brings that gives me the ultimate clarity to say this: go fuck yourself, Seminoles. I know you all talk shit about me when I’m not around, in classes early in the morning and in dorms late at night.
I know the things you say: Thrasher is such a piece of shit, always raising our tuition; or Thrasher? More like I hope he crashes his car driving in the snow; or even worse, John E. Thrasher is not a man to be trusted.
And that’s fine—my soul is as black as the wood that burns in front of me. I know this. But remember that whenever snow falls in Tallahassee, John E. Thrasher is your God and will dictate whether you or not you go to class. And you will never not go to class.
Whether today’s snow, tomorrow’s snow, or next year’s snow is just a dusting or goes well past your kneecaps, you will walk to class.
School is always in session.
Go fuck yourself,
John E. Thrasher
President of Florida State University
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