Cut ties off the shirt he wear

Probably thanks to the quantity of televised science fiction I had recently subjected myself to, I crashed sleeplessly into a nap and dreamed a complex plot full of interstellar politics of which the sole scene I retained was set at an intergalactic university, during a lecture by a diplomat on staff. He's middle-aged, human, conservatively dressed, and he is saying something about protocols when a bucket of water out of nowhere hits him in the face. The students don't know how to react, especially when he just takes off his glasses, dries them on his handkerchief, wipes his face, and keeps talking as if he hadn't been so startlingly interrupted. And a second bucket of water out of nowhere hits him in the face. Now the students giggle nervously and then they just giggle, because it keeps happening, at intervals as unpredictable and unimpeachable as slapstick comedy—catching him mid-sentence with a sputter, forcing him to start over each time and sometimes get dashed twice in a row for his troubles. Few things are funnier than an authority figure losing their dignity despite their best efforts. He keeps lecturing. By the end of it he's soaked to the skin and the class stopped paying attention to anything he was saying several buckets back, when he wasn't dripping into such an impressive puddle. More out of habit than efficacy, since his handkerchief's as damp as the rest of him, he's polishing his glasses again as he says matter-of-factly, "And now you're wondering how you can ever take me seriously again. But I can tell you that sooner or later out there, worse is going to happen to every one of you and you're going to have to make sure they still do," and he puts his still-wet glasses back on and looks out over the class without a trace of embarrassment and they realize that was the lesson and they should probably have been taking notes on the lecture, too. I woke feeling I had just gotten unsubtle advice from my id and feeling a bit weird about it.