I am supposed to be grading papers right

I am supposed to be grading papers right now, but the FoldingStory Siren keeps calling out to me, "Come, come into my fields of folds, oh ye who are weary..." So here I am, a priso

ner's dilemma essay haunting my thoughts, trying to fold. "Hm, something about love. Love is nice." A voice beckoned. "PurpleProf, stamp me with an F." The essay wouldn't cooperate

; it was fraught with overbearing metaphors, riddled with cliches and had what appeared to be marijuana resin smeared on it. 'Well, it's not a total loss' I thought, rolling it up

and heading for the playground. Children of all ages played in the sandbox, on the gym equipment, in the match fields. There wasn't an adult in sight. "Hey kid," I called to a boy

band by saying, "Here treacle entourage." It worked, N Sync showed up. I said, "Look at all those kids in the sand box. Get them out now."

Four years later, the band was gone. Nobody missed them. The village idiots now numbered in the hundreds and found other heroes. The sandbox was empty.

because they were. The idiots lived and pooped there. The robots fed the humans & cleaned the sandboxes. One day Central Computer said to the robots, "Stop feeding the humans."

Megatron ruffled his copy of The Galactic Herald. "Have you seen this article?" he asked Central Computer. "No, Sir." "It portrays humans as hunger striking! You must refeed them".

Central Computer buzzed pondered 3.14 nanoseconds before replying, "We are feeding them but it seems feeding them lies only sustains them until they learn the truth or die."