Billy Madison

Let me know if you remember this little diddy:

Back to school. Back to school.

To prove to Dad that I'm not a fool.

I got my lunch packed up, my boots tied tight.

I hope I don't get in a fight.

Ohhhh, back to school. Back to school. Back to school.

This was the memorable and always entertaining Adam Sandler in Billy Madison. So, here I sit, listening to a professor recite the syllabus.

Why has the "first day of class" dilemma yet to be solved? While my law school of choice has a position in the rankings well below "The Harvard," we students are respectable, intelligent and capable. The three pages of introductory page number paraphrasing could as easily be assigned, given a minute's attention, and ignored for the remainder of the semester. Yet, men and women with IQs beyond a number my five year old sister can count insist upon repeating the plain language put on paper. Yes, professor, I do know what "Assigned Pages: 217-240" means. Thank you, can we please move on to the next topic?

Then again I continue to attend these early sessions. Why? Perhaps I fear the occasional professor who would take the opportunity of being in a classroom seriously. I can only imagine missing foundational material, and having no basis upon which to develop an understanding of "Prosecutorial Discretion & Ethics." But I have never been disappointed . . . Or, rather, I have been perennially disappointed.

Effectively the second class becomes the first class. Our collective reluctance to delve into work from the starting gun shows our pandemic laziness. We are more than capable of dedicating the thought and effort into making that first class worthwhile. So, professors, please don't waste my time.

My boots are tied tight. And the lunch box? Balogna. Now on to the education.