In what began as a harmless joke between universities to fund equipment costs for degrees that actually mattered, has devolved into a tragic cautionary tale. The greater satire market has been flooded with arts students who have nothing better to do with their day.
Universities hoping to take advantage of the disposable income of the previous generation have targeted their spawnlings with promises of superior learning environments. Generation X members who were able to take advantage of the free education provided to them have done well in securing a high paying job and pooping out a bunch of ungrateful turds turned satire writers. The students were set on their futile path of investigative political science or ancient languages of night time mammal’s by despondent school councillors across the country who had already given up on life about 5 years prior.
Upon completion of their degree and being awarded a golden sticker and ‘YOU DID GOOD J’ stamp, universities have promptly given a firm boot up the backside of the futureless graduates as they counted the exorbitant fees extorted out of the ex-students. The potential burger-flippers have thus moved onto the next chapter of their lives believing they have moved closer to one day claiming their noble peace prize in settling the conflicts of the middle east.
Recent empirical testing, while being met with scepticism and disbelief by the graduates claiming unfair stereotypes and a mean world, has shown that only 1 in 10 arts graduates are able to claim a full time job as an arts lecturer. Due to the vicious cycle of in which there can only be few winners the majority of the degree-cum-toilet paper holders have turned their attention to the satire market in a bid to put the 8 courses they completed on interpretive fantasy writing to good use.
Recent trends however indicate the lack of profit in the industry has meant most graduates have been forced into the destitution of their parents 7 bedroom houses. The individuals termed ‘father’s disappointment’ have been reduced to grovelling for their three meals a day with only the occasional back handed snide comment tiding them over between black out weekends. The parents could not be reached for comment between quiet sessions of sobbing to a god in where they went wrong.