That’s it, I can’t take it anymore. I’m going on strike.

I’m just one man with only one page, people. How can I be expected to mouth off when so much is going on? This last week has turned the Post’s office into an absolute war zone and here I sit, with far too much ammunition.

The university is stagnant, the professors are chanting and the students aren’t learning anything. Every other university in the state is buzzing with football fever, while Oakland students are playing Madden in between checking for another e-mail from Mary Beth Snyder.

Russi vs. Russell, “Job Action” vs. “Illegal Strike,” and OU vs. AAUP is all BS.

The Oakland Center is vacant, the classrooms are empty, and for the first time ever, I can get a decent parking spot at noon — which I’m fairly certain is a sign of the apocalypse.

Last week, I wrote a piece about the first day of school, and then there wasn’t a first day of school. Thanks a lot, Oakland. Way to ruin my first column.

I was one of those unfortunate students who showed up last Thursday, bright and early at 8 a.m., only to wait 15 minutes, bitch and moan with everyone in the hallway, then leave. I talked to a girl, it was her first day of college. She drove all the way from Lapeer only to drive right back. What a great first impression of higher education.

With no class to go to, I helped out other Post reporters film some video for our website. I got my first taste of broadcast journalism when Paula Tutman from WDIV snuck around me and took over the interview. At least I learned something on my first day of school: Paula Tutman is a ninja.

WXYZ, Fox and WWJ also showed up. My mom called me to say my school was on the news — and as a journalism student still living at home, I should probably ask someone in the news van if they are hiring.

I watched the protests from a sizable distance. Now, I love getting pissed off and yelling as much as the next guy, but as a journalist, even just the editor of the joke section in the back of the paper, I was ethically obliged to remain objective and as neutral as possible. I wanted to make signs reading “I’m completely indifferent,” “I don’t have an opinion,” or “I cannot take either side in this issue while employed at a newspaper because it is a breach of ethics and could possibly get me fired.” I also contemplated standing behind the last professor in the march and starting a conga line, as long as I danced objectively.

The Associated Press picked up the story, and it was republished online by The New York Times. That’s right kids, our school went from state joke to national embarrassment.

I can’t do this. I can’t work like this. How can I be the jester to an army of clowns? I’m still trying to wash out the bitter taste from the atrocity that was “You Can Afford This.”

There should be a connection being made between the strike and Labor Day, or a comparison between the professors union and the auto industry, or even Obama’s controversial school speech and how none of us will be in a classroom to see it. I could be clever and make a metaphor, but I’m on strike.

Here’s one: You don’t have to learn anything yet, so go back into hibernation, Grizzlies.

It’s all too much. I’m a kid in a candy store and I’m only allowed one handful. Maybe if I had another page or two I would be fine, but I figured my editor might need the pages to, oh I don’t know, report on the historic bumbling of an organization that has stalled the learning of 18,000 students.

No more office smart ass, no more wheeled office chair derby with other editors, no more stealing stuff from the table outside the Student Congress office next door. This is a Mouthing Off mutiny, a strike, a job action.

There’s a joke to be had there using the words “mouth” and “action,” but again, I’m protesting. Use your own imagination, mine is boycotting.

I’m still taking part in the office pool, however. We’ve each picked what time we think the university will send out the campus-wide e-mail announcing classes are back in session. Everyone in the pool has to write something nice on the Facebook wall of whoever gets the closest time.

My guess of 5 p.m. on Tuesday September 8 is looking like a very poor choice. And mine was one of the pessimistic guesses.

“Dan, shut up and get back to work,” my managing editor, Katie Wolf, told me when I informed her that I was going on strike. I’ll give it a week before she files a court order to force me back to work.

My only hope is that this whole fiasco lasts until the next issue, and maybe then I can give this debacle the proper literary lashing it deserves. But I’d much rather have to wake up early, trudge into  classrooms and deal with “syllabus week” rather than write another bit about this whole thing.

Until then, I will keep fighting the good fight. It’s not like I have to go to class or anything.