In theory, any 20 sentences of the muster "Object is adjective" would probably be fine. The Mycologist would hand in an average result and wouldn't stand out from the rest of the class. However, the theory is the ulcer on the body of reality. The Mycologist has just crawled out of his lab where he has spent double digits of hours cataloguing what little fo his samples haven't blown up into his face in the past week. The benefits of keeping a low profile in the literally first class with a new lecturer - one that is blatantly hating this position and perhaps the students along with it - do not even occur to him.
No. He is going to put on his goggles - The ones that's been on his head the whole time; the ones on the desk wouldn't fit over his pince-nez - and he is going to ace this assignment. He will do such a good job someone's sock-garters will snap.
After a short deliberation, he pockets all his pens again and settles for the mechanical pencil. Its main benefit is that it isn't water-soluble, unlike ink. He uses up the first three papers before he remembers he should try to make the text readable to other people. 1: This sentence is false. 2: Question no answer. 3: Answer no question.
The fourth attempt is legible only on technicality, but such is the fate of hands that cannot keep up with the brain. Still, he has taken some care and written each word to the centre of the page, the following one underneath it, crowning the end with a resolute period. 4: All falsehoods are untrue. 5: The truth is a subjective matter.
He watches the fifth sentence with a frown, and on the nest paper he clarifies: 6: Articles are not words. 7: Only words have meaning. 8: English is a silly language. 9: All Englishmen are redacted.
(Yes, he's written down the word redacted rather than any other adjective.)
10: Everyone loses in PHALLUS-MEASURING-CONTESTs This one stands out a bit, because the Mycologist has managed to reproduce the Ex-Disgraced Academic's handwriting if not perfectly, then close to it. However, he has used it only for the three-compound word. Is this pushing it? Probably. But if he gets a face full of water for this, the douser is in the wrong.
That has been twelve sentences in around ten minutes, including re-sharpening his pencil. He has said everything important, he thinks. The Mycolgist scans around the class for anything particularly inspiring, until his eyes land on the silver atomizer. He jots down: 13: All reflections are doors. 14: Parabola is a cone. 15: Quadratic functions describe dreams. 16: Gravity defects within sleep. 17: No law is unbreakable. 18: Hide beneath my heart. 19: I regret nothing.
That... has gotten extremely unprofessional. Fine, for the last one he writes down the ultimate truth of all academia: 20: I deserve better funding.
Re: Class has begun
However, the theory is the ulcer on the body of reality. The Mycologist has just crawled out of his lab where he has spent double digits of hours cataloguing what little fo his samples haven't blown up into his face in the past week. The benefits of keeping a low profile in the literally first class with a new lecturer - one that is blatantly hating this position and perhaps the students along with it - do not even occur to him.
No. He is going to put on his goggles - The ones that's been on his head the whole time; the ones on the desk wouldn't fit over his pince-nez - and he is going to ace this assignment. He will do such a good job someone's sock-garters will snap.
After a short deliberation, he pockets all his pens again and settles for the mechanical pencil. Its main benefit is that it isn't water-soluble, unlike ink. He uses up the first three papers before he remembers he should try to make the text readable to other people.
1: This sentence is false.
2: Question no answer.
3: Answer no question.
The fourth attempt is legible only on technicality, but such is the fate of hands that cannot keep up with the brain. Still, he has taken some care and written each word to the centre of the page, the following one underneath it, crowning the end with a resolute period.
4: All falsehoods are untrue.
5: The truth is a subjective matter.
He watches the fifth sentence with a frown, and on the nest paper he clarifies:
6: Articles are not words.
7: Only words have meaning.
8: English is a silly language.
9: All Englishmen are redacted.
(Yes, he's written down the word redacted rather than any other adjective.)
10: Everyone loses in PHALLUS-MEASURING-CONTESTs
This one stands out a bit, because the Mycologist has managed to reproduce the Ex-Disgraced Academic's handwriting if not perfectly, then close to it. However, he has used it only for the three-compound word. Is this pushing it? Probably. But if he gets a face full of water for this, the douser is in the wrong.
11: Phallotoxins reign supreme.
12: Thou shalt recognise oomycetes.
That has been twelve sentences in around ten minutes, including re-sharpening his pencil. He has said everything important, he thinks.
The Mycolgist scans around the class for anything particularly inspiring, until his eyes land on the silver atomizer.
He jots down:
13: All reflections are doors.
14: Parabola is a cone.
15: Quadratic functions describe dreams.
16: Gravity defects within sleep.
17: No law is unbreakable.
18: Hide beneath my heart.
19: I regret nothing.
That... has gotten extremely unprofessional.
Fine, for the last one he writes down the ultimate truth of all academia:
20: I deserve better funding.