The poor little teacher stepped onto the treacherous white mountain. The ground was slippery and unstable, as if she were stepping onto a mound of typing paper, and that, of course, was because she WAS stepping onto a mound of typing paper. With each step forward in her stalwart clogs, a page would come loose from the pile and flutter with ugly conviction to her feet. There, it would cut into her sad, exposed heels, leaving paper cut after bitter paper cut. The poor little teacher cried.
Still, the teacher walked on. The papers lashed out at her. They taunted, "In these Untied States," and "In order to asses this program," and "Americans believe in life, liberty and the pursue of vapidness." The teacher covered her ears to silence the atrocities. She started to run. She had to get over the mountain! She had to! But the papers said, "You will not pass us--I mean, you WILL pass us. Like, literally, because this class is, like, really important to our major--BUT you will not get over our mountain because we are, like, way too POWERFUL and it's not like you have tenure or anything."
Tears welled up in the poor teacher's eyes. She had to cross the mountain. Her very livelihood depended on it. She mustered every ounce of courage, ever ounce of stamina she had left and made one more desperate attempt up the hill. An shiver of laughter ran through the papers, sending each page shuffling in evil glee, and with sudden force the papers rose up before her. They shackled her ankles. She turned, desperate. Would someone save her? Anyone? The papers rose higher. They coiled themselves around her legs and arms. They pasted themselves to her torso. She screamed. "No! No!" But soon her scream was muffled by the sheer weight of the paper as it landed on top of her, smothering her, killing her, erasing her with nary a smudge from existence. The poor little teacher was no more. The poor little teacher...never would she asses anyone ever again.