Yikes. Talk about word salad reporting and public dismenniation of pseudo information.
We offer an alternative selection of speculations.
Somewhere in the administrative bunker of De Montfort University, a red phone is ringing, lights are flashing, and a nervous official is whispering the words “very serious incident” into a microphone—while outside the true chaos unfolds in all its absurd academic glory.
First came The Coffee Machine Catastrophe. Every caffeine engine on campus failed simultaneously, as if struck by divine intervention or a coordinated espresso embargo. Students wandered the corridors pale and trembling, clutching empty mugs like relics of a lost civilization. Professors attempted lectures, but sentences dissolved halfway through, collapsing into long philosophical pauses. Civilization teetered.
Then the Mascot Incident—a twelve-foot inflatable creature, shaped vaguely like a heroic badger or possibly a tax accountant, broke loose from a promotional event and began tumbling across the quad with the silent menace of a drifting parade float. Security pursued it cautiously, uncertain whether it required negotiation, deflation, or a tranquilizer dart.
Not long after, the Drone Club Escalation began. Thirty experimental drones—each programmed for “precision landing”—decided collectively that the Vice Chancellor’s courtyard was the promised land. They descended like polite mechanical locusts, humming with cheerful menace while onlookers applauded and campus police consulted manuals titled Unexpected Aerial Situations, Volume II.
Meanwhile, in a residence hall kitchen, an ambitious culinary visionary achieved the impossible: burnt toast powerful enough to trigger a campus-wide alarm cascade. Sirens howled, doors swung open, and thousands poured into the streets in pajamas and moral confusion, all because someone believed the dial marked “7” was merely a suggestion.
At the library, things took a darker turn. A prototype Silence Enforcement Robot, designed by overconfident engineers, began roaming the stacks issuing relentless electronic whispers:
“Please lower your voice. Please lower your voice. Please lower your voice.”
It reprimanded coughing, breathing, blinking, and eventually the turning of pages—an authoritarian machine convinced civilization itself was too loud.
And finally, sometime near dawn, the art department unveiled a giant inflatable rubber duck installation that blocked an entire walkway, baffled commuters, and was briefly described in an official alert as an “unidentified obstruction of unknown intent,” which may be the most honest description ever written by a university administration.
Yes, the authorities called it a “very serious incident.”
And in a sense they were right—because nothing is more dangerous than a campus full of sleep-deprived students, malfunctioning machines, airborne mascots, and not a drop of coffee left in the civilized world.
Swansenreport 
Leave a comment