How Standardized testing contributes to Global Warming and Other Curiosities

INSPIRATION! I found you! It was hiding in the vast tangled forest of the rules and regulations that is standardized testing.

You see, I work in a middle school and state testing days are quite an ordeal. The only comparison I can think to make is what a building would have to go through to prepare to receive the president (a lame comparison, I know. I’m still shaking the rust of my inspiration gland).

EVERYTHING is considered a threat (to test security), every corner is monitored by highly trained personnel (i.e. the next name on the alphabetized staff roster as duties are assigned), and the event is catered (insofar as you can say that school lunch is a catered affair).My duty was predetermined at conception.

Listen, I’m a dude. Society dictates that I potty in a room where only dudes are allowed. Rumor has it that there are similar rooms for chicks, but I’ve never been in one. During state testing, the restrooms have to be monitored. The students like have think tanks after going potty. Such a clandestine rendezvous might cause a student to score a little higher and help him or her land a job that he/she is not qualified for (before discussing it in the bathroom, he/she thought the square root of 64 was 116, or that George Washington discovered America, or something).

Such a forbidden meeting might go like this (it’s funnier if you imagine them speaking in British accents): “The answer to #4 is unequivocally option ‘C.'” Says George. Carl scoffs at this, replies “I’d put ‘C’ if I wanted to get it wrong!” Jim busts in and says, “Will one of you please hurry? I really need to go potty.” He then starts doing the potty hop on one leg. George and Carl, having agreed that the answer is actually ‘D’, have moved on to discussing the merits of multiple choice testing and are too engrossed in the subject to hear Jim’s urgent request to pee (peequest?). Just as they decide that short answer questions would be the best assessment tool, but too difficult to grade, Jim soils himself. Now Jim rushes to finish the test so he can go home to change his pants. He ends up failing the test, and repeats the grade. His self esteem is shot, he stops trying in school, and is forced to take a low paying job at an aerosol can factory. As we all know, aerosol cans deplete the ozone layer – contributing to global warming.

In effect, not monitoring the bathrooms during standardized testing contributes to global warming.

This brings us back to my conception. In order to prevent cheating, rousing discussions on testing methods, and global warming, the people who create and enforce standardized testing (Satan, Barbra Streisand, Rush Limbaugh, etc.) have decreed that all potties be monitored during standardized testing. As a male, it is altogether fitting and proper that I should do this.  Getting back to being I.N.S.P.I.R.E.D (part one HERE), ‘P’ will now stand for “potty monitor”.

In keeping with the topic of standardized testing, ‘I’ stands for “Irregularity”. This is a very common, yet much maligned term used for any aberration from testing procedures, which is pretty much everything.

For instance, I told a student to “knock it dead”, ‘it’ being the science test. Moments later an owl flew by and dropped a letter at my feet. It was addressed to “Test Defiler Wilson”. I opened it and it started screaming at me (sounded like Tom Cruise). It said, ” It was reported at 8:03:56am that you bade a student to ” knock it dead” in reference to a test. This is in direct violation of subsection ee of decree 17 of chapter 119 of section four of the third edition of the educator code, copied here for your convenience: Thou shalt not wish luck to any student the student to figuratively use violence between 8:02 and 8:07am. Examples: “knock it dead,” “kick it’s butt,” and “slay that puppy”. For this irregularity, we’re taking away your stapler. May God have mercy on your soul.”

I can’t give you a example of a real irregularity – that, in and of itself, would be an irregularity. However, I can tell you that ‘R’ stands for refill.

When I write the word ” refill”, you probably think of an icy cold beverage at your favorite local eatery. That is quite far from I’m talking about. I refer, of course, to going to the doctor to refill the pump in your abdomen with that sweet, sweet muscle relaxer called Baclofen – which is 1,000 times stronger than the oral stuff. If you’re unfamiliar with this process, I’ve provided some pictures for you. These shots capture the wide variety of emotions that surface during a refill (read the captions for more info).

Primary emotion - euphoria. I never learn, every time I go in for a refill, I think they're going fill it with Pepsi or something, so I'm very excited. But...
Reading the Pump. Primary emotion – euphoria. I never learn, every time I go in for a refill, I think they’re going fill it with Pepsi or something, so I’m very excited. But…
...then comes the dread of knowing that, even if they do fill it with Pepsi, I'm going to get poked. Primary emotion - dread
Dawning the Pump               …then comes the dread of knowing that, even if they do fill it with Pepsi, I’m going to get poked. Primary emotion – dread

 

Primary emotion - boredom. I've been stuck with A LOT of needles. I'm not bragging when I say that getting stuck with a needle is as routine as going potty.
Prepping for the Poke. Primary emotion – boredom. I’ve been stuck with A LOT of needles. I’m not bragging when I say that getting stuck with a needle is as routine as going potty.
The Stick. Primary emotion - rage. Like I said in the previous pic, getting poked doesn't bother me. If I recall, I was so upset on this particular occasion because they didn't have any "Where's Waldo" books in this exam room.
The Stick. Primary emotion – rage. Like I said in the previous pic, getting poked doesn’t bother me. If I recall, I was so upset on this particular occasion because they didn’t have any “Where’s Waldo” books in this exam room.
Sucking out the old stuff. Primary emotion - stunned sadness. The old Baclofen had been a part of me for a few months, now it's gone.
Sucking out the old stuff. Primary emotion – stunned sadness. The old Baclofen had been a part of me for a few months, now it’s gone.
Pumping in the new stuff. Primary emotion - contentment. I'm just about done and the medical assistant has gone to get the "Where's Waldo" books
Pumping in the new stuff. Primary emotion – contentment. I’m just about done and the medical assistant has gone to get the “Where’s Waldo” books

FIN

@JarrettLWilson

 

 

“Emotions” pt. 2(ish)

This is the next part in my controversial “emotions” series. I can’t call it part two because I’m going to discuss two emotions. Why not call it parts two and three you ask?

I can’t call it that because that name is boring. A better name that I’ve in this moment conceived is “part threwo”, which is a combination of the words two and three. Combining numbers two and three, gives us five; I’ll go with that – “Emotions, pt. 5”

You see, in this installment – in what can only be explained as blue flaming overachievement – I’m going to talk about TWO emotions that I have felt recently.

The first emotion can be summed up with the following picture –

Jarrett = A sad panda
Jarrett = A sad panda

Don’t be fooled by the smiley face. About a month ago, ice raineth from the sky such that my car door got frozen shut.

Being as tough as I am, I tugged and tugged until the door came off. I managed to get the door back on, but the handle stuck out. That part about ripping the door off and putting it back on is a lie.

Furthermore, I can only assume that this is unrelated to the door handle and speculate that it has to do with Satan, Cher or some other foul beast – my car keeps dying. Here is a little poem to describe the situation –

Oh car, I exited the highway, then you died

I pulled into a parking space at home, them you quit

Then, you stalled out in the Petco parking lot, dammit

Up to now you’ve been such a dependable ride.

You got me to McKinney,

Then you decided not to run.

Being stuck in the middle of the road isn’t fun.

I had to have a wrecker drive 30 miles to get me.

The cost to fix you has been high.

More than that, it’s been a big pain in the ass!

Oh car, why does your fuel pump stop pumping gas?

Please please please get better before I cry!

The mechanic can’t determine where the problem lies;

The Buick service dept. seems bumfuzzled too,

Here’s what I’ve decided to do –

Rent a car from Enterprise.

This should give the mechanic time to fix you,

And while he does, I don’t have to be without transportation

Calling for rides is a real agitation

With any luck, you’ll be back on the road in a few.

This broken car business has been quite an ordeal – I don’t wish to comment on it any further.

Instead, I’ll turn to happy business. I know I’ve already covered that “emotion”, so I’ll take it one step further and describe it more fullyer.

A few months ago, I told you about a PRESENTATION I gave to the seventh reading classes at the school where I work. The reading teachers had the kids make flyers as if I was coming to speak.

That's right! An entire wall at the school is all about me!
That’s right! An entire wall at the school is all about me!

Close up of my wall #2

Creative kids, no?
Creative kids, no?

To be the object of an entire grades’ learning is quite a privilege; I felt very important. I don’t know if there’s a name for this “emotion” (or if it can even be called that). Whatever the case, I propose to call this “emotion” improrteged, or perhaps primporileged. Either way, I was greatly honored to be a vehicle to help transport young minds to learning.

That wraps it up for the 23rd (threword)/5th/2nd  installment of my revolutionary “emotions” series.

Toodles!

FIN

@JarrettLWilson

Where is Grammarland at? :P and State of the Art BO Defense

TBI is…Topics Bereft of Independence – There are many topics on my mind other than surgeries and hemorrhages. Problem is, most of these topics won’t provide enough content on their own.

What am I to do? Do I allow these topics, brief as they might be, to die and rot like so much roadkill?

 

NYET! I’ve saved all this stinking detritus and will now empty it into your head like so much garbage truck dumping its refuse at the dump.

 

That’s right, I pretty much just said your brain is like a big heap of stinking trash.

 

Speaking of things that belong in the trash, and not in a travel mug approaching your mouth, I made the mistake of mixing honey with black tea.

 

I don’t know what made me think this combination would taste good (it was probably Satan). I take that back, it tasted “great”; by “great” I mean it tasted like bug guts sandwiched between two pieces of sadness.

 

This traumatic experience and my love of words lay together and conceived a new word, this word was officially birthed on July 13th on the Twitter. It read thusly –

Hoblate (Ho-blah-tey. Honey+Black Tea)-A very bad combination.

Hoblate eg

Dude: I’ll wear brown shoes, black slacks, brown belt & blue sport jacket to the wedding. ok?

Gal: How hoblate! That doesn’t match.

 

I redeemed myself a few days later with a scrumptious combination of cinnamon, honey, peanut butter & blackberry jelly (cinhopeabublajel). This happywich tastes like rainbow guts (I assume they’re pretty tasty) sandwiched between two pieces of happiness.

 

The above information, when considered a particular way, can be considered data. When you read that last word, how did you pronounce it? The correct pronunciation is “DAY-TUH”. If you pronounce it “DADDUH” you are wrong and you have my scorn.

 

The only thing that insults my ears more than “DADDUH” is when someone asks me where someone/something is at.

 

It upset me to write the above sentence for demonstration purposes. For those of you who don’t know, ‘at’ is a preposition and prepositions can not end a sentence.

 

When someone says this a fairy dies in grammarland; when I hear it, I feel like I’ve become a little less intelligent.

 

Finally, we come to a topic that’s been weighing heavily on my mind. I speak, of course, of the “technology” employed to improve the stink fighting power of deodorant. Take a look at this picture –

Armpit funk has met its match – technology
Armpit funk has met its match – technology

The stick on the left is more technologically advanced because of the “Fresh Defense Technology”.

When I think of technology, I think of the wheel and computers and phones and blinking indicator lights, not scented goop that I smear on my armpits.

I suppose the marketing guys thought more people will buy their deodorant if they clearly labeled how technologically advanced it is. The following monologue might play out in a discerning consumer’s head –

Maybe I should get Speed Stick. *Reaches for Speed Stick* Wait! I’ll be stinking in a matter of minutes with its outdated stink fighting technology! *Quickly pulls hand away* If only there was a stick with the technology to defend my freshness. *Eyes zero in on Mitchum Professional Strength* BINGO! What a relief!

Later, another savvy consumer goes looking for deodorant. I wish girls couldn’t smell in the third dimension, most deodorants nowadays only eliminate odors in two dimensions. You’d think that one of these companies would capitalize on the fact that no other brand offers odor defense in all three dimensions. *Eyes widen, throat squeals with delight* Holy sh*t! Right Guard answered my prayers! No more “I’ll go out with you when your third dimension doesn’t smell like bug guts sandwiched between sadness.”

I should mention that the only “technology” mentioned on most anti-perspirant/deodorant is focused on the deodorant. It seems that anti-perspirant “technology” has plateaued.

I will now close the gate on the garbage truck that is my thoughts. Hopefully, you have the technology to defend against the smell 🙂

FIN

@JarrettLWilson

Sh*t Happens, Part One

Don’t forget that I don’t curse, so the title is pronounced “Shasteriskit Happens”. I’ve mentioned before that I fancy myself a writer, and do so enjoy writing. I would like to share some of my fiction writing with you. The following is a short story I wrote for a short story contest (that I somehow did not win, I blame Satan). It’s pretty long ( fast what she said!), so I dare not post the entire thing. I’ll put up the first part today, this third part tomorrow, and the second part the day after that (approximately).

The inspiration for this story comes from Kurt Vonnegut and the way he trivializes major events. ENJOY!

“PEE-PEE!” Shouted Rob in the highest octave he could muster.
Sandy buzzed with excitement at those words. Rob bent down to clip the leash onto his dog’s collar, but the dog was so spastic with excitement, he couldn’t secure the clip.
“Sandy, help me help you!”
After a few more minutes, Rob had the leash clipped on, potty treats in his breast pocket and a baggie for poop in a back pocket, with that they were out the door.
Sandy led Rob on their usual morning walk – on the sidewalk in front of his apartment, then around the corner into the courtyard of his complex. She went pee, Rob gave her a treat. They continued to the other side of the complex, Sandy scrunched over and pooped on a patch of grass close to a window. Rob decided that, since he was in a hurry and it was dark with no one around, he’d leave the poop there. No one’ll walk there, he assured himself. Rob and Sandy started walking back to the apartment. Sandy was leading Rob through a grassy field. The walk was going speedily until *squish*. Rob slipped a little as warm poo spread onto the bottom of his workboot.
Rob composed himself and used the rest of the walk to scrape his shoe against the grass in hopes that it would remove all traces of poo.
Rob lifted his boot to see the damage, the sole still had a heaping glaze of feces, with a few ambitious clumps that, in an outright “up yours” to gravity, were crawling up his ankle.
Rob thought back to the last tenants meeting. Patio ornament lady brought up the issue of dog owners not picking up their dog’s “excrement” – she refused to say or respond to any slang word for shit. The tenants at the meeting all agreed that they’d do a better job of picking up their dog’s “excrement”.
All the same, Rob’s foot found a very stinky, sticky and gooey pile of “excrement”. Rob didn’t want to show up smelling like poop, so he started scrubbing off his shoe, choosing to be late instead.
Rob woke at six, extra early that day because the central office called him late in the evening on the previous day to assign him the job. Rob, an AC repairman, already had a job lined up for that day; but Mrs. Sanderson, his boss’s sister in law needed a technician right away, she said her AC wasn’t cold enough. She gave strict instructions that he was to be there no later than 7:15.
He arrived about 7:40. Mrs. Sanderson was pacing back and forth on the steps of her porch, yelling into her phone; no doubt at Rob’s boss.
She noticed the van pull up, abruptly ended her phone conversation and stormed down the steps. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” She shrieked.
“Well you see, there was this grizzly bear chasing after some orphans…”
“OH, CAN IT! Do you know how much Zumba classes cost?”
“Eleven dollars?” Rob said sarcastically. “What’s a Zumba, anyway?” He asked with mock sincerity.
“I don’t have time to answer your bullshit questions, you’ve already made me late. Air conditioner is in the attic. I’ll be back in an hour, try to be outta here by then!” Before Rob could respond, she was halfway to her Jetta.
She sat down and turned the car on. Neil Diamond blasted through the speakers. She mouthed the line, “Hurting runs off my shoulders. How can I hurt when holding you?” She took her iPhone from her purse, she stopped to examine the new pink and white checkered case she just got for it, “Sorry, Neil. It’s Steve’s turn.” She said apologetically to her stereo. She plugged her phone into the cord coming from her car’s auxiliary port, pecked at her phone and Journey flooded the inside of the car. Mrs. Sanderson always listened to Journey before working out.
She usually leaves at 7:30 sharp. It takes about 20 minutes to get to the gym, ten minutes to check in and get situated. For a minute, she thought that being a few minutes late would be ok; then she thought about catching her husband staring salaciously at the waitress’s butt at Olive Garden last week. The young girl’s tight ass whirled in her mind’s eye – she floored the accelerator.

End of part one. Tune in tomorrow to find out if Mrs. Sanderson was able to work the jiggle out of her bottom…