The Hive of Asgard

EDUCATIONAL REFORM

Skjold "Golden Arm" Odinsson was late to his class on Diffeomorphic Transformations of Nonlocal Semi-Logical Quasi-Riemannian Manifolds. Again.

He tried to enter the lecture hall as unobtrusively as possible. Not an easy task given the circumstances. He took his usual seat directly behind the girl with the golden cornsilk hair. She turned around to give him a toothsome smile and then turned back to her notes.

"Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Mr. Odinsson," Professor Imnotanazi said. "What pray tell delayed you this time?"

"Sorry, chief. I mean Professor Imnotanazi. Coach kept us for extra hour of practice this morning. We need to get ready for our game against the Fighting Chipmunks. It's only three days away."

"Ah, another rodent-related delay. What is it that you totemistic savages call yourselves?"

"The Screaming Beavers."

"Ah yes. Well, beavers are very industrious rodents, Mr. Odinsson. Too bad I can't say the same about you.

"Also, my understanding is that you are a mere quarterback. I can only assume that this means that you are precisely half as valuable as a halfback and one-fourth as valuable as a fullback, and Coach Concussion has assured me that there are plenty of those on you precious Screaming Beavers team.

"Thus, there is no need for you to be out on the gridlock all morning."

"That's 'gridiron' sir."

"Based on your running game, gridlock seems about right," chimed in Narcissus Adonis from the back row.

"Well, Mr. Odinsson, it seems you do not arrive in class on time because you have already mastered the material through independent reading. Is that the case?"

The golden-armed Viking sheepishly nodded his head.

"Well, Mr. Odinsson, perhaps you can enlighten the class as to the relationship between nonergodic inverse reticular transformations and quasi-normal semi-functions on Mobius topologies."

"I'm sorry, Herr Professor Imnotanazi ," the flaxen-haired jock said and hung his head. "I'm afraid I've fallen behind in my reading ."

"Well, I'm sure that your pure Aryan brain will allow you to catch up rapidly, unlike your Oriental and Jewish classmates, who are limited in terms of both their cranial capacities and deficient cultural backgrounds. This course should not be difficult for a full blood such as you. Tell me, Mr. Odinsson , what don't you understand about doubly-recursive femto-transformations in non-Kleinian, hyper-affine Reimannian subspaces?"

"Pretty much all of it, sir."

"All of it. Did you hear that, class? All of it. Well, what do you intend to do about that. Mr. 'Golden Arm' Odinsson? You know that you are in danger of flunking this course. If that happens, you will lose your football scholarship, and the services of one beloved golden-armed pseudo-Viking will be forever be denied to your precious Screaming Beavers as well as to all the other rodent mascots around this great Cornshucking Football Conference of ours. You will, in a word, become unemployable. You can say goodbye to your seven-figure NFL salary. You might even have settle for my own paltry salary of $90,000.

"But wait, you don't know a thing about hyper-affine Reimannian subspaces. Guess you can't have my job either. But wait, you're basically a thug. You could be a policeman. No wait, they make only $50,000 per year and cop lives don't matter. Going to be hard to sport the mink coat and diamond earrings you're wearing on a $50,000 policeman's salary, Mr. Odinsson."

Golden protested, "But this course was listed as jock-friendly in the course catalogue. You're supposed to give me an A, no matter how stupid I am. This university will go under financially unless you give me an A."

"Was this by any chance the Gryffindor University course catalogue issued last spring? That was meant as a joke, Mr. Odinsson, an April Fool's prank."

"Well that's just great," the neo-Viking replied. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Well, if you want a seven- or eight-figure salary, I'm afraid that you will need to pass this course."

"But how can I do that? I don't even know what the name of this course means."

"Perhaps one of our gook or kike students might able to cram the essentials of this course into your undoubtedly false-blond Viking-coifed noggin. Do I have any volunteers for this Sisyphean task?"

The blond vixen with the cornsilk hair in the desk immediately in front of our Aryan protagonist shot her hand straight up. "Ooh, ooh, ooh, I'll do it, Professor Imnotanazi. Pick me! Pick me!"

Their archetypically racist instructor took count of the vote. "It seems as though all students but one decline this hopeless task. Well, Ms. Kayoko Lokisdottir, it seems that you are the only volunteer for this impossible tutoring assignment. Are you sure you want to do him?"

"I want to do him in the worst way possible, Professor Imnotanazi. I want to do him with extreme prejudice. I want to do him so hard that he will be a puddle of pulsating protoplasm when I get through with him."

Imnotanazi walked behind the lectern to hide the boner that was making a tent in his pants. At that moment, he wished that he really was the Norwegian that he pretended to be rather than the apostate Orthodox Jew that he knew he really was.

The head of lush, undoubtedly real Viking hair in front of Golden Odinsson rotated almost 180 degrees. Linda Blair style, to look deeply into his eyes. He knew that Professor Imnotanazi would not approve of her eyes, bearing as they did the epicanthal folds that Herr Professor took as the defining trait of Orientals, gooks, slopes, slants, nips, chinks, Japs, Charlie, rice monkeys, and seaweed suckers everywhere. But Golden, having grown up in football locker-rooms, was a connoisseur of racial slurs. Where Herr Professor tolerated no fine distinctions within his general category of slopes, he knew that craziness of Kayoko's dancing, bright, laughing eyes and her skintight motorcycle suit meant that she was Japanese, or not to put too fine a point on it, a nip, or to use their own and thus non-derogatory term, a Nipponese.

"Hi, I'm Kayoko Lokisdottir," she said. "All Viking skin and hair, I'm afraid. But in here, I'm all Japanese," she said, pointing her index finger at her skull. Oh yeah, and I've got a limbic system that is pure Tibetan tantra. When it comes to sex, you probably won't last eight seconds with me. Although with proper training I can keep you on the verge of sexual ecstasy for 48 hours or even longer. So just put all sexual thoughts out of your sleazy little minds" Kayoko said with a mischievous grin, sweeping her soon-to-be overworked index finger over the assembled multitude of 89 males and four females.

But Kayoko's admonition had no more effect than instructing a person not to think about white elephants for half an hour. It was simply impossible, as evidenced by the 89-tree redwood forest the male contingent sported in their pants. Make that 90 trees if you count the nine-inch boner Herr Professor Imnotanazi was pointlessly trying to conceal.

"OK, class, this may be time to break out the real-time cognition monitoring system that Dean Patel has been pushing on us for over three years," Dr. Imnotanazi said.

"OK, everybody if you got 'em, whip 'em out. Now you will find out why Wastewater University has adopted the new no trou dress code. I assume that all of you are going commando. If not, take off your tidy whities or your Victoria's Secret silky bluies and chuck them down here on the stage.

The eighty-nine male students immediately unzipped their pants, exposing their johnsons and various orifices, too delicate to be mentioned here, to the crisp open air of Lowell Lecture Hall.

Undergarments rained down upon the stage. "Mmm, I count 15 silkie bluies, but only four women." Iamnotanzi said. Somebody's not reporting for gender normalization class.

"Oh well, for you guys, put your balls into the cups that have been provided to you and wrap the sphygmomanometer around your shaft."

"Sphygmo-what?" Moose Schlipowitz asked.

"Sphygmomanometer. The thing that looks like a blood pressure cuff. Just wrap around your shaft and velcro it shut. Then pump the bulb a couple of times to make sure it's on there tightly."

"Dr. Imnotanazi, I don't seem to have a shaft or balls," the transfer student named Bronco 'the Eunuch Maker' Browsey complained. "Can I borrow someone else's? I'll be real quick"

Golden knew that Browsey was attending Wastewater University on a mixed-martial-arts athletic scholarship . He also knew that she was, in the words of cage master Bruce Buffer, the reigning undisputed UFC bantamweight champion of the world, and her last name was pronounced "Broooooowzy. He also knew that she could render any of them unconscious in ten seconds and could probably take their genitalia in under six seconds. Golden crossed his legs just thinking about it.

"Well, Ms. Browsey," Imnotanazi continued, "normally I would say that that is because you're a woman. But in your case I'm not so sure."

It took Bronco Browsey 2.3 seconds to get to the stage and cradle Imnotanazi's family jewels in her right hand. "Are you sure now, motherfucker?" she asked the world-famous meta-mathematician. She gave his testes a friendly twist, leaving no doubt in Herr Professor's mind that she could extract his favorite spherical objects in a nanosecond, if need be.

The Fields Medal Laureate gasped and shook his head. "Actually we have a real surprise in store for you girls, I mean coeds, I mean women," he said, sweat pouring from his brow.

"If you would kindly return to your seat, Ms. Browsey. We can get started.

"OK, for you nubile coeds in the audience , we have a special treat for you. I think it's a waste of time personally, but Dean Wormer insists that we bring our mathematics program screaming and kicking into the 21st century.

"First, if you lovely ladies would be so kind as to take the rubber shafts that you will find under your chairs and shove them as far up your coochies as humanly possible.

I'm sorry, I'm just reading the directions on this card. Don't hate the messenger, only the message.

"Now if you ladies will be so good as to place your vibrating clit caps over your lovely lady lumps."

They complied with great enthusiasm.

"Ah perfect. Now if all of you, boys and girls would be so dear as to attach your nip clips to your nipples."

Golden Odinsson raised his hand. "Dr. Imnotanazi, I'm a football player. I don't got no nipples."

Bronco Browsey arrived at Golden's desk before he could inhale to start another sentence and twisted his nipples unmercifully. "

"What do you call these, pretty boy?" she asked the pride of the Wastewater Screaming Beavers.

His lips quivered and he whispered, "Nipples."

"What was that? I can't hear you, you lowly scum."

"NIPPLES!" he told the distinguished cage fighter, then more softly. "Nipples."

"OK, now that we have that out of our system," Dr. Imnotanazi said ,"can we please complete the prep? If all you students, boys and girls alike, would be so kind as to wiggle your behinds and sit down as hard as you can on the vibrating anal dildos that have been provided for you at the rear of your chairs. You just have to bring them to the locked and upright position first."

The audience began to gasp, moan and gyrate. Imnotanazi quickly pushed the off bottom for the anal dildos. "Sorry about that, chiefs," he said with a sheepish grin on his face.

"We are going to install one of those clicker systems whereby you twits can signal me by pressing a button to show that you understand the material. This instant feedback is all the rage in many of the other universities in the Cornshucking Football Conference. Wastewater has engaged the services of the educational consulting firm of They'll Can't All be Vegetables, Inc. to install the feedback system into which you are now all plugged.

"Let me show you how it works. At many points during this lecture, you will be asked a multiple choice question, and you will enter your response using the keyboard attached to your desks. . For you boys out there, if your answer is correct, you will be given a pleasurable electronic sexual experience, such as I will now demonstrate with the Screaming Beavers' prize QB," Imnotanazi said, and punched an intricate sequence of buttons on his clicker. As soon as the distinguished meta-mathematician pushed the enter button, Skjold 'Golden Arm' Odinsson felt his robo-snatch go into hi-lube mode and close tightly around his turgid shaft. At the same time, his just-installed electronic butt plug went into maximum vibe mode. He felt its hot juices flooding his rectum, as said junior dildo accelerated its assault on Golden's lower intestinal tract. At this point, his ball cups squeezed tighter around their respective orbs. They felt like two hungry feminine mouths eagerly devouring and teasing his testes. His just-installed nip-clamps played with his false breasts, teasing him to an even higher state of ecstasy. The pride of the Screaming Beaver's football team was now being fucked eight ways from Sunday.

Maybe it was just Golden's imagination, but he thought he could smell smoke coming out of his personal orgasmatron as well as out of his ears, just like in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. He came in a burst of white lava that completely dislodged the robo-pussy from his shaft, shooting it straight up to bounce against the ceiling, raining white goo down on Golden's pristine golden locks in the process.

Golden slumped in his chair.

"Goddamn," Golden said. "I am never going to come again. What would be the point? What could compare to that? It's going to take at least a week for me to even get hard again."

"Oh, but come again you will, Mr. Odinsson. Come again you must," Imnotanazi said. "It is vital to your learning process. You see, class, one part of this year's annual physical exam for Wastewater undergraduates that may not be apparent to you is that when you were in the MRI machine, we took the liberty of restructuring your brains. We have implanted in each of you a vast array of electrodes that can be controlled through a clicker such as the one I hold in my hand. You will obey my every whim.

"For instance, Mr. Odinsson, let us exam your claim that it will take a week before you can become aroused again."

The good professor punched a button on his clicker, and Golden's johnson snapped into a state of rigid attention. An emptiness overcame Golden. He felt all alone in the universe, desperate to be wrapped in skin.

"You see, students, we simply had to take such drastic measures to insure that you do not text in class. Americans' score in international mathematical achievement assessments have dropped to a position a smidgen below that of Papua New Guinea. Hell, Afghanistan's even beating us, even though they stone their girls to death for attempting to go to school. Fucking Afghanistan!

"But these devices that we have implanted in your brains and on your happy zones are going to put an end to all that nonsense. Am I right class?"

The class rose as one and clicked their heels together. "Yavolt, Mein Capitan!" they shouted, and raised their fists.

"I will illustrate this feature with Mr. Toshiro Tanaka. Tank, send me a text message praising this new feature."

Toshiro did his thumbs thing and hit the send button. Immediately, his head exploded, spraying the students with white and gray matter, not to mention smoking skull fragments. Tank stood there for a moment and then the left and right halves of his body went their separate ways in manner reminiscent of the Shogun's cleaved brain in the classic movie Shogun Assassin, directed in 1980 by the Japanese scholars Robert Houston and David Weisman, the latter a protégé of Andy Warhol.

While Emmy Noether was still picking bone fragments from her hair, a pimply-faced kid named Alvin Lefkowitz waved his hand agitatedly.

"Yes, Mr. Lefkowitz, what inane suggestion are you going to pose to the class this time.?"

"Can you show me how to disable the texting app from my cell phone?"

"I would be most happy to, but after class please." He looked around at all the frantic students. "I will be glad to purge this monstrosity from all your so-called 'smart phones'. But please, let's do it after class."

A sophomore in the back row with rapidly shifting eyes and a knit brow said, "But shouldn't we report Tank's death to the campus police or at least to the Assistant Dean for Student Affairs? It kinda seems like murder or at the very least, physical harassment."

"Quite perceptive of you Mr. ah...Christian. Fletcher Christian is it? No doubt your parents named you after the rogue master's mate in Mutiny on the Bounty. They must have valued independence of thought, the questioning of authority, and nonconformance. Well, I assure you Mr. Christian, such traits will only get you killed here at Wastewater.

"You would find your complaints to academic and civil authorities falling on deaf ears. Mr. Christian. Also you would find your academic record here at Wastewater expunged. Same goes for all the other records of your existence on this humble planet of ours. As consolation for this loss you will receive a new identity as a mass murderer serving the fifth year of a 99-year sentence for machine-gunning down a class of angelic, maximally cute fourth graders.

"How can we accomplish all this, you wonder. Well, the President is a tad enraged at our losses in mathematical achievement to the likes of Papua New Guinea and Afghanistan, and so he has set up special pilot educational experiments, which include this very class in which you are currently enrolled.

"Do you think that he would allow few deaths to stop his attempts to drag this great country of ours kicking and screaming out of the pit of academic imbecility. Do we not allow eighth graders to die at prodigious rates during middle school football practices? Is the great edifice of mathematics, created by the likes of Plato and Euclid less important than FUCKING MIDDLE SCHOOL FOOTBALL PRACTICE? Well is it Mr. Christian? Before you answer, please note that my finger is resting on the same red button I used to bifurcate the hapless Mr. Tanaka's brain a few moments ago, may the prophet smile upon him.

"I'm waiting for an answer, Mr. Christian."

"Nein, mein furher! Well maybe high school practice, but that is more serious. It is a pipeline to college and then the pros."

"And I suppose we would then find ourselves forced to recruit inferior Screaming Beaver footballers. Is that what you're saying Mr. Christian?" The good professor asked.

"Well, not in those exact words. Well, maybe."

"Well as they say, Mr. Christian, the moving index finger writes, and, having writ, moves on." Imnotanazi pushed the red button and Tanakafied the unfortunate Mr. Christian. Gray matter and bone fragments once again rained down upon the class.

A brown hand in the second row was raised.

"Yes, . Ramalama Dingdohng?"

"Is that why the university has been on lockdown for four months now, sir?"

Channeling his inner Rocky Balboa, Imnotanazi replied, "Absolutely. But this is diverting us from the main subject. Just as you will be intensely rewarded for a correct answer, you will be intensely punished for an incorrect answer, as I will now demonstrate with our golden-armed Screaming Beavers' pseudo-Viking QB.

Imnotanazi pushed a sequence of buttons, and Golden felt his 'nads being crushed by the very same ball squeezer cups that had given him such intense pleasure only a few moments ago. The cybernetic snatch that had so wonderfully showed him the way to eternal bliss now constricted painfully around his engorged member and tugged and shook it just like the great white shark trying to scarf the hapless Captain Quint down its considerable throat. Just when Skjold "Golden Arm" Odinsson thought things could not get any worse, his marvelously inserted anal dildo grew to a length of two feet and began to ram into him with utmost dispatch.