When, while sitting among my fellow graduates half-listening to some under-educated, washed-up, B-list movie star (who had deigned to show up for the ceremony, no doubt, only upon being bribed with an honorary degree) pontificate about making our mark in the world, I attempted to read my diploma. Realizing eventually that I had not been transported to a bizarro Earth, but that the entire document was printed in Latin, I exploded. I stormed onto the stage and shoved the movie star aside and took the microphone.
"I always wondered why anyone would major in a dead language," I said. "Now I know. It's the only way you can understand the scribblings on the piece of parchment they hand you as your reward for your $150,000 investment and four years of hard work--or, in my case, six. Not that all six consisted of hard work, as I spent my sophomore and my three junior years playing Hearts in a drug-induced stupor, but unless you majored in a foreign language you have a right to expect your diploma to be written in a language that doesn't require you to call in a priest for a translation."
The audience (or at least the student portion thereof) cheered my welcome interruption of what they surely ranked among the most boring days of their academic careers (unless they were Latin majors, in which case today was likely the highlight). I turned to the guest speaker, Kevin Costner, and said, "Waterworld? Are you kidding me?"