If getting fired from a college course was possible I would've been fired a fifth time. It was my junior year and the Advertising Design course that I was stuggling with was my very first. Because it had taken me until my junior year to decide on a major, I was saddled with a monster course load. The fact that my dad was shouldering big bucks for my Syracuse University tuition only added psychic weight to that load. I had to do well, and I can honestly say that during those first couple months I'd never worked harder for anything in my life. But, not long into the semester it became painfully clear that something was wrong. It seemed the harder I worked, the worse my grades got.

Throughout my academic history any art or design related course was an easy A. Now, I was pulling all-nighters just to pass. I didn't get it. Looking back I realize that my instructor was a ego-centric asshole who focused his attention on the class babes who loved the extra attention and extra credit. It was a very competitive environment so, I suppose, they can't be faulted for leveraging any advantage. But, when word got out that he was physically involved with one particularly ample-breasted A-student I started really disliking the guy. I was busting my hump and it didn't feel like a very level playing field. Just as things seemed darkest came a chance at salvation appearing in the form of an easy assignment. The instructor presented it as "an opportunity for the stragglers to catch up."

The assignment is straightforward: Create a Direct Mail piece to be mailed to him with three guidelines to follow. They are simple, but must be followed to the letter. They are: 1) It must relate specifically to him. 2) It must be physically mailable. And, most importantly, 3) It must be outrageous -- something that he will never forget. All semester long his repeated complaint was how we were way too conservative. "There would be plenty of times to be conservative in the working world," we were told, but this was college and a time to "push the boundaries and be outrageous." It wasn't like the piece even had to sell him something. Consistent with his personally, it seemed like it just had to relate to him. We're told that any piece which effectively satisfied the guidelines will get an A.

I am thrilled. With only a month left in the semester, and my grades tanking, this is my last chance to salvage things and prove I'm not a hack. I meditate on the mysteriously simple guidelines wondering if there's some hidden catch. Like an athlete preparing for the big game, I repeat them over and over in my head, knowing I've got to ace this one.

Two days later, brainstorming with a female classmate, I'm getting nowhere. Not even a crumb of an idea. My eyes desperately search her cluttered dorm room grasping for something, anything that might spark an idea. Strangely, I notice that this classmate has been working on a another assignment for a photography class which, coincidentally, happens to involve some photos she's taken of our instructor. Hmm. I think how I might put them to use. My eyes continue to wander. Stashed in a corner, I then notice a copy of Playgirl. I grab the magazine and curiously flip through page after page of naked studs, repeat the guidelines in my mind... "must relate to him"... "must be outrageous"... "something he won't forget." The mental wheels are finally turning. With a flash of twisted inspiration I abruptly leave the room, Playgirl in hand, with a couple of borrowed photos of the instructor. I ignore the worried look on my classmate's face.

My thinking is simple: Pick the most muscle-bound studboy photo in the magazine whose head size is an exact match for a head photo of my instructor. Then, paste the trimmed instructor head (with attached necktie) onto the naked Adonis. And, to remove any possible doubt about meeting the "outrageous" qualification, I decide to modify a particular piece of male anatomy. As if performing surgery, I use my x-acto blade like a scalpel carefully removing the male organ from one slightly larger photo, and past it over the one in the photo I'm using. Just for added impact I paste it in an erect position. At this point "outrageous" is a gross understatement to describe the naked Frankenstein I've just created. I slide my work into a plain brown lunch bag. What's a bit scary, in retrospect, is that I actually believe this twisted pornographic creation will redeem me.

The big day arrives. As I enter the classroom I notice that something is different. For some reason the desks have been rearranged to form a large circle with just a single desk in the middle. We quickly learn that instead of handing in our assignments as usual our instructor has decided that it would be more fun to have the entire class watch as he personally opens each piece, one by one. Class begins.

As if choosing chocolates from a candy box we watch as he begins selecting and opening each piece. The more a piece flatters him, the more he likes it. Yet, none of the pieces are what I would consider "outrageous." It's beginning to feel more like a lesson in ass-kissing. Looking back, it totally was. Yet, as I sit in class I'm not feeling anxious. Like a mantra I simply repeat the guidelines in my mind: "must relate to him, must be outrageous." Time keeps passing, and with only a few unopened pieces remaining he has yet to open mine. He selects another. Then another. And then another. After going through almost two dozen pieces only one unopened piece remains on the desk. Mine.

Just as I prepare myself for the grand finale something strange happens. He acts as if he's done. "Huh? How could miss mine?" I say to myself. In this moment I see the metaphor for how I've felt the entire semester -- dissed. I can't allow him to get away with it again. As he's about to dismiss the class I feel forced to speak up: "Um, I think you forgot one," totally revealing my authorship.

He pauses and reaches for my inconspicuous offering as if selecting that last chocolate that no one wants. As he does I project the positive reaction I'm hoping for: "Ha, finally! Someone who understood the assignment. Great job!" Then reality hits. A hush fills the classroom as he stares at the piece in stunned silence. It's like seeing a fighter dazed by a hard left to the jaw. Not revealing the piece to the class he mumbles something about it being obscene and totally wrong. As classmates strain to get a better look at the piece in question, I sink in my chair feeling more betrayed than embarrassed. "I did exactly what he asked for," I tell myself.

The next day I find myself in his office discussing the assignment, my grades, and what may ultimately determine the next 50 years of my life. After a meager attempt to plead my case I realize there's no point. He offers me two choices: drop the class (with three weeks left), or take my chances on a grade. Though he won't reveal the grade I'd probably get, it's quite obvious it won't be good. I ask if I can sleep on it. He nods. Before I leave his office he tosses out a bit of career counseling: "Do yourself a favor, don't go into advertising."

The next day I drop the class. It's a decision that goes against every fighting instinct I have. But, I see no recourse. So, half-way through my junior year in college I find myself back to square one, wondering about my major, concerned my future, and thinking how I'm ever going to explain this to my parents.

A couple interesting footnotes to this story:

A few years later I get hired by an agency whose Creative Director is (no kidding) the same babe that my first advertising instructor was hooking up with. The agency was one of the places I got fired from.