Grating Papers

Recently, I read a magazine article about how english teachers are on the front lines of preventing school shootings because warning signs of violence are often embedded in the creative writing assignments of troubled students. At first, I felt sorry for english teachers. Not only is the dagger of your own failed literary aspirations twisted with the reading of each melodramatic, sophomoric student essay (How's that for metaphor, Mrs. Brown?), now you have to be on the lookout of for the next Columbine? Those assholes in the history and math departments don't have to put up with this crap.


Talking to some of my friends who are teachers, I learned that those assholes in other subjects do have to put up with this crap; it's just much less obvious. Luckily, those teachers were kind enough to pass along some examples of such troubling homework. See if you can spot the subtle red flags.

Math:
The square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides. When expressed in equation form, the theorm is typically written as A squared + B squared equals C that justice is leveled against the corrupt, the wicked...and also the football players.

History:
Some authors draw a distinction between the Founding Fathers of the United States of America, who signed the Declaration of Independence, and the Framers, who drafted the United States Constitution to replace the Articles of Confederation. George Washington was considered the dominant figure in both the framers and founding fathers and as is typical of any father, he took enormous strides to act like a giant dickwad and failed to ever find the time to take his son, America, fishing.

If you have access to any similar "examples", please paste them in the comments section.

A Load of Bull

I recently accomplished, at the age of 26, what few mortals are able to achieve in a lifetime: being thrown from the back of merciless, raging beast that has claimed too many lives to document…a mechanical bull. A fire to conquer such a creature has been burning in my loins ever since that fateful birthday when a car load of friends and I searched in vain for the only habitat in the St. Louis area hospitable enough for such a species to survive…and stud. Sadly, we discovered the once lush plains where mechanical bulls had grazed for centuries (i.e., a country-western mega-bar located in a strip mall deep into St. Charles County) had been wrought by over-development (i.e., folded to due to poor business practices).

I had mentioned this disappointment casually to my girlfriend; careful not to disclose the full extent of my pain. Luckily, she recognized the thinly veiled devastation and quietly yet dutifully kept watch for opportunities right this catastrophic wrong. Then a few weeks ago, in a tone of voice a doctor uses to describe terminally ill patient’s full yet unexplained recovery, she said “There’s going to be a mechanical bull at some bar in D.C.”

Choked up and fighting back tears, I whispered, “The time for victory is upon us.”

The window of opportunity was narrow. Le Bull had a one night engagement at the local McFadden's; a chain bar world-renowned for their inattentive wait staff, skanky girls and hip-hop remixes of "Devil Went down to Georgia." This particular franchise was located in the heart of Catholic academia, George Washington University’s campus, and also featured an inattentive wait staff, skanky girls with rosaries and hip hop remixes of "The Lord’s Prayer.” 

Upon entering, we were immediately struck by the abundance of cowboy hats and girls dancing on the bar while wearing what, in terms of square footage, would barely qualify as potholders. Naturally, I assumed that a film crew was shooting b-roll for the upcoming Coyote Ugly sequel ("Coyote Uglier?") and scolded myself for neglecting to wear my nice chaps…and then congratulated my friend Brad for not repeating my mistake. 

Just because Brad and I chose to express ourselves with our shirts off didn't mean we appreciated being objectified.

According to their email blast, the bar’s $20 cover charge would grant patrons access to an open bar until 11pm. Or if you were a lightweight (I’m looking at you Brad), you could pay $5 and pay standard fare for drinks. Assuming I could easily consume $40worth of beer in just over 2 hours, I opted for the former. But by minute 17 of trying to flag down a bar tender, the evil genius ofthe bar's business plan became clear and I was reminded of my least favorite bible verse: it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a man to order a fucking drink at McFadden’s." (Matthew 19:23)

I won’t deny that being a guy affords me a lot of undeserving privileges in life, (generally higher pay, a leg up in an entrenched paternalistic society, relatively short grooming rituals) but getting the attention of a straight male bartender is not one of them. That’s why I prefer gay bars where my batting eye lashes and opened shirts aren’t completely ineffective in getting daddy a mimosa. 

Eventually, we wrangled some longnecks and proceeded to the riding area where we stood in awe as cowpoke after cowpoke were humbled before the bull. Supposedly, there was a cash prize for longest ride. This was hard to believe because a) no one appeared to be timing the riders b) the guy controlling the bull (aka: the bull master) was clearly biased. Basically, he could buck the rider whenever he pleased. All he had to do was whip the bull’s axis and, within a couple quarter turns, the strongest of riders would be reduced to a defeated pile of skin, bones and axe body spray. Make the no mistake; he’d generally make it fun for the rider -- rocking the bull back and forth, up and down to provide a challenging but enjoyable experience for a reasonable amount of time. But in the interests of his own amusement and depending on whether there was a hot girl next in line, he would usually buck the rider within 10-20 seconds. 

It was particularly amusing when an attractive girl would ride. The hotter the girl, the more the cadence of the bull’s bucking and thrusting would most graphically resemble intercourse (weird?!) and prompt throngs of onlookers to yell “Arch your back!” Naturally, attractive girls tended to ride longer and it was always obvious which ladies the bull master considered the hottest because he would bite his lower lip and cover his crotch with his Trapper Keeper. 

I ended up riding twice. The first time wasn’t recorded because I wrongly assumed there would be a sizable line preventing me from immediately signing up. There wasn’t and, though I rode for fair amount of time, I ended up getting bucked before my girlfriend could snap a photo. Not content to let one of the top three moments in my life to go undocumented, I returned to the line with bated breath. This time however, the bull master recognized me from earlier and immediately began to punish me with violent spins typically reserved for only the most douchey riders. I suppose if the shoehorn fits… 

You Look Delicious

Apparently, edible clothing is all the rage...and I can't stop thinking about it. Here's what's been eating me for the last couple of days:

- As an edible clothing retailer, it seems most profitable to follow the common business practice of selling smaller items at seemingly lower cost but ultimately at a higher profit margin per square inch. For example, an edible hat might cost a consumer $20 (roughly $.50 per square unit of edible fabric) and a shirt might cost $80 (approximately $.40 per square inch). Though the customer pays $60 extra for the shirt, they're getting more food/clothing for their dollar while the store enjoys a higher gross profit.

- A savvy consumer might recognize this superior value of larger pieces of clothing and shell out the extra cash knowing they can eat their way to whatever smaller garment(s) they desire. Obviously there are limitations specific to each garment, but a hungry person could easily nibble a pair of slacks into some tasteful (zing!) chaps or capri pants. For their money, a shopper's best buy is surely a wet suit. Since it covers your entire body, it could easily be eaten into whatever apparel needed: sweater, tank top, board shorts, whatever. The flexibility is certainly worth paying a premium.

- Despite any the monetary value of the attire, its real cost must be calculated to include the fact that no sane person would wear an edible garment more than once and certainly not eat the clothing after use. For sanitary and psychological reasons, it's difficult to believe that food can possibly be enjoyed after rubbing against a person's figurative "buns", "pits" or "bacon strip" for any amount of time. Those who invoke the 5 second rule are being unrealistic considering most clothing takes at least 5 seconds to put on.

We're dining on Jordache and Playtex.

- Washing the garment presents further challenges. Using a traditional washing machine would effectively transform it into a giant pot of stew (which can be good or bad depending on whether you're hungry for stew). Even if it did survive the wash, drying is even more complicated. Machine drying would turn your dryer into an oven and prevent you from ever doing laundry without making your clothes reek of jerky, quiche or whatever fabric your shirt is made of. Though advocates of edible clothing will argue that the threat of clothes smelling like food is a moot point, I'd counter that most people would prefer a choice in the matter. Air drying is an option, but would certainly attract invite unwanted critters and/or malnourished children eager for a snack. Who wants that?

~

Other thoughts worth considering before choosing to wear edible clothes:

- You’ll never need to salt your food.

- Your credibility when complaining about hair in your food will be greatly diminished

- Depending on how well it’s cooked, the sticking properties of a “Spaghetti strap dress” could remove the need for a brassiere.

I Suck At Talking

As a poorly adjusted, easily flustered person, I have a tendency to leave out entire words and phrases when speaking. These aren't minor oversights like omitting a throw-away article or adjective. I’m referring to important sentence components vital to the idea I’m trying to express. The best example came a few years ago while attempting to describe a concert experience to my girlfriend.

Here’s what my brain was attempting to say:
"Last summer, me and Kevin went to this outdoor music festival. It was great but we were so tired by the end of the day, all we wanted was to soak in a hot tub. That would’ve felt SO GOOD!

And this is what my mouth actually shat out:
"Last summer, me and Kevin…hot tub…SO GOOD!














While this verbal mishap didn’t produce any serious consequences (other than merciless teasing that continues to this day), I’m horrified that this tic is going to rear itself during a really important conversations that include but are not limited to:
- Legal depositions
- Job Interviews
- Marriage Proposals
- Obituaries

God forbid the day when I decide to get married and ask my girlfriend’s parents for permission to wed their child.

This:
“I love your daughter very much and with the blessing of you and your wife, it would be my sincere honor to drop to my knees and ask her to make me the happiest man on earth.”

will come out as:
“ I love …your wife…honor…knees….make me…the…man”
or
“Your daughter….blessing…your…would…on…earth…SO GOOD!”

The Nation's Best Public Transportation System

While riding on the Metro recently, I was pained to discover that my forearm had produced an enormous whitehead resembling a tablespoon of elmer's glue. Simaltaneously proud and ashamed this dormant yet grumbling volcano, I pondered with horror and fascination how an absurdly large pimple could go unnoticed for so long.

Most reasonable people might discreetly conceal the blemish with a plausible cover: coat, ipod, a fig leaf. Unfourtately, I fell victim to a mysterious logic that somehow convinced me that it would be less embarrassing to immediately extinguish the zit while in plain sight of anyone watching rather than roll down my sleave and wait until I got home.

With a sense of purpose and urgency, I pounced on the blemish with the wicked delight of a neglected housewife sufficating her rich, bed-ridden husband.
But as the ruby, white puss splattered against the seat in what looked like cover art for a White Stripes album, l felt a deep sense of remorse. Despite years of deluding myself that I was mature, wise young man, I solemnly conceded that I was indeed that "that guy who pops arm zits on the subway." Shamed, my eyes quickly scanned the car to confirm whether anyone witnesses my crime.

That's when I saw a girl blowing a guy.

That's right. Not more than 20 feet away, a teenage girl, barely concealed behind a short wall and plane of slightly tinted glass, was chomping on her boyfriends genitals like a homeless man devouring a $50 steak.

At least that's what it looked like from my vantage point. To be fair, all I could see was the back of the girl's head bobbing up down from behind the short wall. However, the young man's expression seemed to confirm my suspicions; his euphoric gaze, head alternately tilting back with his eyes closed and then looking down smugly at the beautiful sacrifice being put forth by his lady...yeah, this guy was getting his shit sucked.

Suddenly, my embarrassment was put into perspective. Here I was, worried that someone might have witnessed me waste a few seconds by pinching my skin to expel some harmless white puss. Whereas, this girl was clearly straining her back and neck (those seats hurt to sit in normally, let alone ....) for who knows how long; demonstrating her undying affection for her love, undeterred in her conviction that this blowjob could not wait until they could go somewhere more private/romantic like a public restroom or roommate's living room futon.

What better place than here? What better time than now?

Carpe Diem, my friends. Carpe Diem.

Running list of bad, politically-themed pickup lines

1: Do you subscribe to Reagan Economics? Because I want to trickle down all over you.
2: Do you support the surge? Would you like to?
3: You're not the only frustrated person in a blue state.

Change I Deserve?

Ingesting a regimen of anti-depressants strong enough to kill a racehorse everyday for 6 years is bound to create dependency issues. It's also expensive. So, out of apparent emotional and financial necessity, moving to D.C. was partly an effort to rid myself of this chemical deadweight.

After 8 months of gradually reducing dosage amounts (with permission of a medical professional), I'm happy/horrified to announce that I've successfully waned myself free of a former 300mg/per day habit of a drug that shares it's slogan with the GOP.

And it sucks.

If you thought I was moody before, my current emotional state makes my previous-self look like a fucking Osmond. The last 4 weeks especially have required a Hureclean effort to function normally while cleansing my inards of the final 37.5mg per day. The more "free" I become of the medication, the more my mental state resembles erratic emotional rollercoaster ride with soaring peaks (jubilation that our office got a new coffee maker!) to deep, deep valleys (uncontrollable sobbing triggered by hokey Mastercard commercials.:( )

Coincidently, the same month the new incredible hulk movie opened in theaters, a real-life, seemingly mild-mannered man was released on the streets of our nation's capital who, at the slightest provocation, transforms into a ruthless, monotone killing machine. Me.


You wouldn't like me when I'm cranky.

On Thursday, for example, I provoked a completely unnecessary and nearly violent altercation with a stranger on the subway. Exiting a DC Metro gate involves inserting your fare card in one slot and waiting for it to reappear out of a different nearby slot. Only after the patron removes the card from the second slot does the gate open and allow the individual to pass through. Or, if you don't prefer to live like a caveman, you can obtain a credit card-like pass that will open the gate with a simple wave over a sensor.

Because the exits at DC Metro stations are designed much like cattle yards and include long, narrow shoots at which far too many time-pressed individuals try to cram into at once, after-work crowds tend to "bottleneck" while trying to exit. Anytime a gate doesn't open (due to personal error or otherwise) that person has to turn around, apologetically navigate through an impatient crowd that has assembled behind them and seek out a station manager.

Minor delays at the metro exits my not seem like that big of a deal, but trust me, if you've had a long day, you have to be somewhere and you've just ridded your body of medication designed specifically to make you feel good, your ability to choose your battles dwindles significantly.

The gentleman in front of me had inserted his card in the first slot but failed to remove it from the second. Despite forgetting his card, he somehow managed to squeeze through the gates just as they were closing from the patron in front of him. Because his card was still waiting in the slot, it prevented my swipecard from working.

It's was an honest mistake and most reasonable folks would wait patiently for the gentleman to retrieve his card. Or, if they were really nice, might even hand it to him across the gate, you know, as an act of "teamwork" and/or "goodwill."

On this afternoon, I was not one of those folks. Instinctively, I snatched the card and dismissively flung it frisbee-style in his general direction. Not surprisingly, the piece of cardboard almost boomeranged back towards me as it spiraled down to floor; clearly causing further delay and making matters worse

"Thanks for throwing my card!," he hissed sarcastically.

Without missing a beat, I snarled, "Thanks for taking it in the first place, asshole!"

While I made full "chest-puffing-you-want-to-go-motherfucker-eye-contact " during this initial exchange, I quickly realized the gravity of my dickishness as I glanced down to wave my card over the sensor. Being too proud to apologize but too sheepish to continue eye contact, I looked straight ahead as I exited the gate. Out of my peripheral, it was clear the gentleman was staring me down and calculating how hard he was going to kick my ass. Luckily, we parted ways towards different escalators before he could act on his intentions and thus allowed to escape certain embarrassment and/or hospital visit(s).

Clearly, I was at fault for the incident and while my lack of medication influenced my behavior, it doesn't excuse it. So, if he's reading, I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to that asshole (I didn't catch his name) who forgot to take his card and also express my deep remorse for acting like such a monumental douchebag.