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Defendant: Mister Disco
Prosecuting attorney: Mister Tulkinghorn
The Charge: Your Honour, this worthless dilletante, the defendant, ventured to claim he could finish a publishable and indeed theoretically challenging work in the aim of becoming a doctor of philsophy, by the close of three years. He has spent one and a half of those years pretending to all and sundry that the small and extremely deficient sections of text he has produced thus far merely anticipate and preface the final genius product. So mired in pointless researches is he that everything he writes, even the procrastinatory sallies made on internet boards, is wanting in grammatical correctness, creativity and articulation. We see in Mister Disco's discourses everywhere the stain of muddled thinking, arguments with little factual basis, clouded judgment and a prolixity that does not say far more than it says. The situation, Your Honour, is at such a dire point that if we were to refer once more to the annals of Nineteenth Century British literature, we should shortly be forced to rename Mister Disco, Mister Casaubon.
Secondly, he has spent the university's time, money and resources (such as office space, staplers, photocopying, use of the office printer). He has even used the university's resources for producing Non-Essential Items such as printing whole books on the Department printer, fraudulently claiming to have worked more hours than the actuality in his position as Research Assistant.
Thirdly, in his efforts to twist his brain farther than it is truly capable, he has neglected his friends (who are beginning to neglect him). He is so unreasonably cranky and short with his nearest and dearest, let alone those farthest from him in affection and geography, that they make a point of avoiding him. He feels so sorry for himself that he neglects to answer emails or engage in any of the pleasures and obligations required in polite society including paying bills on time, ensuring that his vehicle is properly registered, paying calls on his Aged Parents, and so on. Of late, Your Honour, he takes refuge in a chronic hypochondria, spending days in bed claiming to be too 'tired' and 'fluey' to write, to work, to bend his hand to the wheel. We observe, M'Lord, that he is not too 'tired' to eat salt and vinegar chips and watch television serials four night per week.
In short, Mister Disco is a worthless excuse for a human being who cannot even lay claim to being a member of the society for which he conveniently evinces so much scorn. We do not believe, Your Honour, that this defendant has any future ihn his chosen field. We move that he be immediately disbarred from the University and sent to a call-centre factory-home, in which he may be put to some use.
Actions to be taken: Drown Mr Tulkinghorn in a lake of shimmering fire. Watch him crackle and burn. |
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