"The next morning, I woke up at eight oh oh hours, my brothers, and I still felt shagged and fagged and fashed and bashed and my glazzies were stuck together real horrorshow with sleep glue, I thought I would not go to school."

A Clockwork Orange
Anthony Burgess

That's right, ikkikiddoes, it's back to school for the lot of you, and there's nothing you can do about it. Muchy like there was nothing I could do about it, and my em and pe before me. We all learned the same ucky stuff. There's the shitshitshistory, there's sci-highence, and above all, there's the Queen's wanky way of talking her Roy-holy Enggy.

Other stuffies as welly well. Learn to scribble with loopy loops and multiply fivetimesfivetimesfive to make it all cubey. Cut up little vesches to viddy where the heart goes bumpbump and watch the blood dribble all krovvy. They say we can learn a lot from the ribbets and worms. Someday you could go grow up to slice up your fellowman all horrorshow, making enough pretty polly to stick your two fingers up and say ol' fuckall to all.

You're the future of this nation, and all that cal. That's why they keep stuffing Georgie Wash and Danny Boone into your gulliver. That's why they keep you sitting nice and sparkling quiet-like and smecking for seven hours a day, half the days of the year, for twelve of the freshest years that will ever pass you byebyebye. It's preservation for all you little devotchkas and malocheks because more than anything else, we don't want to deally deal with whatever comes out of your bitty litsos.

If you smeck real big and repeat the answers they give you in the back of the book, you'll get the highhigh score on the big testywest. Nothing but A-A-As, free towing when you break down, and a trip to the fancy uni of your choice where the edu gets higher the more polly you pop into it.

Don't for a minoota go kashl, kashl, kashl at what the starry old vecks have to humble mumble chumble trying to fill up your zoobies. You've got all the cutest ptitsas and rough n' tumble malochecks to smeck at and sneak in a little in-out in-out before the concy consequences get all brrrr and gloomy.

Don those bezoomy uniforms and straighten the tighty tie. Once you fill out the full size, you'll be ready for a twenty to thirty sentence at some of the finest architectural structures ever made to imprison the working class. And what skorry cappyapitalists you will be, oh my brothers. After sifting through vectors and pi, equations and calculations, they've got a place for you to have a heavy sit down. A posh desk, a bright screen and enough greeny green to keep you sitting nice and quiet-like for years.

But that head is far ahead, right now it's back to where your belongings belong. Back to the periods that last much longer than a mandatory pause. Back to where you learn what they teach and nothing they don't. Back to the projects that lack points, points that lack projection, and projecting points that will get you suspended if you lack restraint.

If all this nadsat cal comes across as bezoomy kashl and makes you go boohoohoo in regards to your humble narrator, I tell you now to swallow all that chumpty dodder. For it is not me you need to shake your tisking tumbler at, I'm freedy dee of it all. I served that sentence just like the rest of the brighty tikes. I am like the present of all that toting of what was once seen as the future. A product of bio and chem, Enggy and mathy. I even chattled a bit of hist and mindy-psych. It was nothing but A-A-As, pats on backs, and tossels on the gulliver. All they gave me when it was done was a worn through map of the road where all the sheep travel, and a strong suggestion that I join up with the next herd to tumble by. And that was that was that.

So viddy well, oh my droogs and dear brothers. I'm off again for a bit of nash and rumpty tump because it's not where I've been with all of my cool fool schooling, but where I haven't.

Chris Jungle scribbles the nadsat real horrorshow.