On the first day of college, the Dean addressed the students, pointing out some of the rules.
“The female dormitory will be out-of-bounds for all male students, and the male dormitory to the female students. Anybody caught breaking this rule will $be fined 20 the first time.”
He continued, “Anybody caught breaking this rule the second time will be fined $60. Being caught a third time will cost you a fine of $180. Are there any questions?”
At this point, a male student in the crowd inquired, “How much for a season pass?”
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For weeks, Jamie had worked on the final essay—drafting, editing, second-guessing every word.
When he finally submitted it, Jamie felt a flicker of pride. Three days later, he got the paper back with a single note scribbled in red ink across the top: “Needs Improvement.”
No comments. No suggestions. Just that. Cold. Brutal.
Confused, a little crushed, Jamie rewrote the entire essay. He restructured his arguments, added clearer transitions, changed the conclusion. He even checked the punctuation with a grammar plugin he didn’t fully trust. Then, he submitted it again.
Two days later—same result. “Needs Improvement.”
This time, frustration flared. Jamie spent a full weekend reworking it line by line. He buried himself in the library, pulled academic references from obscure journals, refined every sentence like it was a poem. He didn’t just improve the essay—he transformed it. Font. Format. Flow. Everything.
When he printed the final version, it looked like something that should be framed.
Jamie marched into professor’s office and placed it firmly on the desk.
“This is it,” he said, almost breathless. “I have read it twenty times. Cross-checked every source. Triple-proofed every paragraph. This is the best I’ve ever written—possibly the best I can write. If this still needs improvement, I’m not sure what else to give.”
The professor looked up from a pile of papers, raised an eyebrow, and slowly took the essay.
He nodded once.
“Alright,” he said calmly, “I guess I’ll actually read it this time.”
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A college student writes to his parents…
“Dear mom and dad,
“I feel miserable because I have to keep writing for money. I feel ashamed and unhappy. I have to ask for another hundred, but every cell in my body rebels. I beg on bended knee that you forgive me.
“Your son,
Marvin.
“P.S. I felt so terrible, I ran after the mailman who picked this up in the box at the corner. I wanted to take this letter and burn it. I prayed that I could get it back. But it was too late.”
A few days later he received a letter from his father. It said,
“Your prayers were answered. Your letter never arrived!”
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It was Christmas and the postmaster needed an extra set of hands to sort the mail.
He’d been warned that Gerber was something of a dullard, but the postmaster decided to hire him anyway.
On Gerber’s first day of sorting the mail, much to everyone’s surprise, he separated the letters so fast that his motions were literally a blur.
At the end of the day, the postmaster said to Gerber, “I want you to know how proud I am of you. You’re one of the fastest workers we’ve ever had.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gerber replied, “and tomorrow I’ll try to do even better.”
“Better?” the postmaster said in astonishment. “How can you do any better?”
Gerber explained, “Tomorrow I’m going to read the addresses.”
