I hit the ground. All goes dark once more. My head hurts. It is the only thing that appears to have hit the ground. My eyes open.

  There, in front of me, is... another person - sitting at the same desk as me. I lift my head up and look around. Memories begin to come flooding back, and suddenly everything makes sense – or rather, loses all sense of meaning that I may have found before. I am Wilson McRaddish, student at the Royal College of Randomnity, est. 31st September 2010, a date that never actually existed but could be proven historically, mathematically and philosophically, and nobody could be bothered arguing about all those things at once, so they generally forgot about that fact to whatever extent possible. With my head removed from the ever-growing dent in the desk, my pencil rolls slowly away from me, before falling off the edge. The clatter of the wood hitting the durable bald-eagle hair floor is deafening.
  “Wilson! What on earth was that?” demands my lecturer, Mr Taylor.
  “Erm... my pencil fell off my desk, sir?”
  “I can see that, my laminated amigo. But why did it fall when it rolled off the edge? That is a result of Gravity! You know fine that inside my classroom, nothing is to obey the laws of Physics! Laws are not by any means random, unless they are instantaneous and unordered, which can only happen in the presence of several ball-point pens, of which I see none. Therefore, next time you should avoid such a dreadful idiocy. Agreed?”
  “Geckos, sir”
  “Good, that’s what I like to hear. Now, getting back to the subject, Jan’s are the standard measurement for any and every value in existence. How much does everybody in here agree with me?”
  “Sixteen hundred Jan’s of agreement here, sir,” contributes a small linen closet in the third row.

  “Now, let’s turn that sixteen hundred Jan’s of agreement into Rachimetric energy. What do we have then, Ximphly?” he continues, looking to a tall, blue-haired girl in front of me, who is dancing the Physics dance in an inversely correlated manner to that which the lecturer had momentarily stated fifteen thousand years later and yet in the same instant as this one.
  “About two and a half chewit wrappers and five eighths of a wallaby, I’d reckon”
  “Wrong. You forgot to compensate for the value between zero and the Rachim theoretical constant. You would actually get three chewit wrappers and fifteen metric tonnes of wallaby fins, and possibly a salt shaker depending on the external temperature of the agreement.” He concludes, with a final majestic waving of the trout that had appeared in his left hand as a result of his tapping the blackboard.

“Now, class. I trust everybody did the homework I will issue tomorrow?”
  Blank faces fill the room. A housefly that was silently buzzing around above the blackboard suddenly transforms into a small coaster and solves the world hunger crisis, or would have done so if Mr Taylor had not seen the randomnity coming and taken prevential measures in the form of dancing around in circles, making cuckoo noises and forming a turkey sandwich shaped knot with his tongue, throwing the fly head-first into a pile of pliers in Norway, exactly as he had planned. Then, a flood of essays came in to the front of the class. Following the randomnity class to the letter, each and every student (except Jemima Puddleduck) handed in a long essay on everything from how 1 does not equal 1, to the turtle-dove theorem, or the proof behind how randomnity law can be used to prove anything, given the right circumstances and broad enough knowledge base. Now, this would seem completely normal if one had any rational idea of the course material, but the thing that struck me the most was the sheer randomnity involved not in the essay subjects themselves, but in the essay material. Let me explain: Each and every essay was done on a carrot, a toothbrush, a needle-head, a chunk of wax, or whatever else the students could get their hands on. One student had even gotten his one branded onto a donkey he had imported from China. So, of course, Mr Taylor scrunched up all of the essays and put them inside of a small time capsule cleverly disguised as a non-extinct Dodo bin. Another wave of shock comes over the class.

  “Thank you very much, I will gladly accept this award for giraffe fighting from the comb union of Belgium.” He begins once more, and then levitates a sheep, on which he plays several classical orchestras and multiple CD’s simultaneously. The entire class does the conga around a small wooden horse and coughs quietly, not wanting to spoil the moment. My pencil rolls off the desk once more, floats in the air for twelve Jan’s of instants, and begins to grow hair before joining a band of hippie rebels devoted to the cause of premature baldness. Many years later I found that it had begun an organisation known as WHSmith, shortly before it was sued by the actual WHSmith for six quadrillion Jan’s of money, which I gladly provided through my professional part-time belly-dancing service.

  The bell goes – at 13.62am – as it had never done before, of course. This causes a large screen to walk across the front of the class, wipe a cardboard cutout down with lemon juice, and then jump out of the window around seven times a second until it gets bored of this and spontaneously combusts in a manner not unlike a fountain composed of much cheese and tomato pizza, without the pizza. Then, the Euro drops to the worth of around fifteen rupees in a small village in India, and the class begins to leave, randomly. One jumps out of a window that didn’t exist, another climbs up a ladder into an upside-down couch that had appeared, before saying the words “Rachii glimpmorph?” and vanishing in a plume of blue smoke. Each finds his own unique, utterly random way of leaving. Personally, I don't think it seems that random to leave randomly any more. So, instead I leave in a truly original way: I make sock puppets in the shapes of farmyard animals and vegetables, until the classroom itself decides to leave, resulting in my finding myself outside. Outside of what, though - I have no idea. I rotate my eyebrow fifty-seven degrees counter-clockwise, before falling silent as the universe loses all meaning.
  Before me is revealed the very essence of randomnity itself, in all its glory. My relative utter normality hangs around my neck much in the same way as a horse drinks water, and so my destiny faces the infinite donut-shaped Universe for the first time. They play Rock, Paper, Scissors for about ten minutes, then get bored and walk away

More to come, folks...