Professor Montgomery Rupert Mayfield's full monologue

Parents believe it's an investment in their children's future, a beacon of academic excellence. Little do they know, it's a haven for their own selfish desires.

You see, I've been in this game for far too long. Teaching at Thornwood wasn't about molding young minds; it was about maintaining peace and quiet at home. Every parent sending their precious offspring to this elitist boarding school has the same ulterior motive. They're not seeking education; they're buying themselves tranquility.

Thornwood isn't an institution of learning; it's a high-priced babysitter. A way for the wealthy to sweep their responsibilities under the rug. "Let the school handle it," they say as if we're glorified nannies with tweed jackets and chalk-stained fingers. The hefty tuition fees are merely a salve for their guilt, a way to appease their conscience for shipping their offspring off like excess baggage.

Education? That's a mere guise, a curtain they hide behind, pretending to be concerned about their child's future. The reality is, that they're concerned about their own present, their own peace of mind. I've seen it all, year after year, the same charade.

These parents don't care if little Timmy or Susie becomes a doctor or a lawyer. No, they care about the tranquility of their dinner parties and the unhindered pursuit of their hedonistic lifestyles. And Thornwood is their chosen accomplice in this grand illusion.

The school brochure boasts state-of-the-art facilities, a curriculum designed for excellence, and a nurturing environment. What a load of rubbish. We're here to keep their progeny away, not to mold them into the next great minds. The only nurturing going on is of the parents' egos.

And what of the teachers, you ask? We're nothing more than pawns in this elaborate game. Expected to uphold the charade, to play our parts in the theatrical performance of their perfect lives. Heaven forbid we break character and expose the farce.

They handpick us, not for our teaching prowess, but for our ability to keep a secret. To grin and bear the insufferable arrogance of these pampered progeny. To tread lightly around their delicate sensitivities, never daring to challenge their entitled worldview.

Oh, I've seen the cycle repeat itself over the years. The bright-eyed newcomers, full of potential, were brought in like sacrificial lambs. The parents, oblivious to the sacrifice they're making, eagerly signing the checks, signing away their responsibilities.

The irony is palpable. Thornwood Academy, a place where futures are supposedly forged, is nothing more than a playground for the privileged. They buy their peace of mind, one tuition payment at a time. And we, the silent custodians of their secrets, play our roles with a rehearsed smile, masking the contempt that festers beneath the surface.

So, as the parents parade around, blissfully ignorant, basking in the illusion of a nurturing environment, I, Professor Montgomery Rupert Mayfield, continue to dance to their orchestrated symphony. Thornwood is a sanctuary for their solace, a puppet show where I pull the strings and play my part in this grand illusion of education.