The Easy Answer to the question, "How are your classes?"

By Kyle Kubo

Winter quarter is here at last. As the cruel mistress of learning slowly rears her butt-ugly countenance and we scratch our heads in a sleepy attempt to thaw our neglected gray matter, shelled and frozen like so many Klondike Bars, the third question on everyone's lips (after "What is book?" and "Can I go home?") is "How are your classes?". Since our earliest ancestor first krumped its way out of the primordial Gogurt and into an Intro to Terrestrial Survivalism classroom, we have lacked the tools necessary to answer this question with any respectable measure of precision or accuracy. But no more! Shrug now the shruggiest shrug you have ever shrugged, Santa Clara, for it shall be your last! Here, patent pending, are the Descending Echelons of University Course Excellence:

1 – This is the dream. No final. No exams. Quizzes graded on a curve so forgiving it has a vertical asymptote at B-. Papers with maximum word limits that could also be bowling scores. One or more classmates whose attractiveness is rivaled only by their a) willingness to assist in your understanding of even the most basic concepts of the subject matter, b) doe-eyed inability to understand even the most basic concepts of the subject matter without your assistance, c) shared interest in things that nobody but you has ever heard of or would ever wish to hear of, or d) nothing; nothing can rival their attractiveness. These are the set your alarm, high five a stranger, actually wear deodorant classes.

2- This is the meh-jority. A final. Some exams. Intricately detailed bibliography rubrics. A really heavy book that you need for class sometimes but not all the time. A classroom that smells vaguely but consistently of Lucky Charms. Pizza party at the end of the quarter. Being challenged. These are the classes you study for with the TV off.

3- This is the section from the black lagoon. A take-home AND a written final. A paper for every test and a test every week. Air conditioning that seems to be mainlining the frigid vacuum of deep space. One extra credit assignment worth one percent of your grade, expounding in iambic pentameter on a book that's no longer in print. A release time late enough that the sandwich counter in Benson is out of Dutch Crunch bread, but early enough that you inevitably run into that guy you spilled hot soup on that one time. These are the classes you drop like a wet Furby that just bit you.

So the next time Johnny Smalltalk asks if you'd recommend Marine Anthropology 60, don't just change the subject. Drop a D.E.U.C.E. on him.