Escape from City College: There’s gold in them thar hills

By Nick Palm
The Guardsman

I’m giving up. Throwing in the towel. Releasing the hostages. Unwrapping the burrito, if you will.

We’re only three weeks into the fall semester, and I already find myself questioning whether or not I can take 15 more weeks of this.

The classes themselves are not the problem. It’s the metaphorical street-juggler persona I’ve taken on that gives me hell.

Wearing the customary clown face paint and over-sized, floppy red shoes, I commence with my act:

I juggle school, my job, my girlfriend, friends I like, friends I don’t like, and countless useless hobbies. Needless to say, there are not enough hours in a day to fuel my attempt at a productive lifestyle.

However, I think I might have found a solution.

I literally had a “eureka!” moment this morning when I read the word “eureka” on a chalkboard in one of my classes.

Why would anyone ever want to toil through hours of manual labor, just to receive a measly paycheck that barely covers the cost of living, let alone college?

Then you pay for college with this hard earned money, all the while hoping to receive a piece of paper  they call “diploma” that announces to all who read it, “I have learned things. Hire me. But don’t pay me too much. Please, pay me less than I would be making as a bartender… which is what I was already doing before I received this diploma.”

So I propose the question: Why make money when you can find money?

Friends, I am taking on a new role. Sorry, Kurt Russel, you will be receiving no more royalties from me for my portrayal of your “Snake Plissken” character.

I will now be known as “Jebediah Turdlebrock: grouchy old prospector.”

I’m a leavin’ for these here foothills in the morrow-times of a fortnight hence! Sorry, no need to confuse anyone with prospector speak.

Here’s my plan:

There’s got to be tons of gold left in the Sierra Foothills that was not discovered during the days of the Barbary Coast.

So I asked my editor-in-chief, Greg Zeman, if I could take a few weeks off from The Guardsman and try my shot at striking it rich.

Not only did he say yes, but guess what? He’s coming with me! Although Greg will be searching for oil, apparently.

I’ve read plenty of Jack London stories, so I know I’m prepared. We’ve got all our equipment ready and are leaving tomorrow. Farewell, San Francisco. Set us free to become the disgustingly rich prospectors our destiny beholds.

So I ask you, the reader, please don’t feel envious when we return from our great excursion with more money than you could ever imagine.

I won’t forget all the little people when I’m living the life of a railroad tycoon in my mansion atop Russian Hill, where I live with my wife, Gisele Bundchen – whom I “intercepted” from Tom Brady (sports reference!).

There, our children will play in the fields of poppies and tulips I paid to have built for them – by purchasing the city of Livermore and leveling it. (It was bound to happen, people.)

Greg Zeman, my partner in wealth, will live next door in a slightly smaller, slightly less impressive mansion with his wife, children and a pack of domesticated-cheetah butlers. (Any form of feline training is possible, given the time and resources. Trust me.)

Wish us luck, friends. And please, keep sending me your funny, tragic, heroic, or just despicable tales of your extra-long tenures at City College.