1) UMPTYM is a misspelling of UMTYMP, a program for students who are supposedly talented at Mathematics. I am saying "supposedly" because I was part of the program. My parents threatened to disown me unless I could get in, I got in and spent most of my time staring at my notebook and doodling. Sometimes I got what my teacher was saying, usually I just stared at all the random shapes my eraser lint was creating.(I see a seahorse, oh cool, an ostrich, wow, stacked up and up is something that looks like a pyramid)
If you want to contribute a story/essay/poem, send me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org. It can be about anything you want, you can choose to remain anonymous.(uhh..no longer)
As is evident, I stopped updating this site because I can't build webpages. This is a collection of strange stories I wrote in high school, it measures in the shame index at around 9.5(near baby pictures). I'm not deleting this completely because some of the stories may not be all that bad considering where I was at in high school. I started a blog to chronicle my life from college and beyond. Sensations in my Mind
Email me at: email@example.com
After going to college I got a boyfriend and gained some maturity and lost my sense of humor. The University of Chicago is a terrible environment for poets, for satirists, for transexuals, you really need to be as hardy as a piece of cement to survive.(but you can, and I promise that my blog will be more colorful and less humorless throughout the year as I bitch about things that are bothering me instead of hiding the pain behind all that alliteration and casting word rhymes to the sky. Life still blows, so there's plenty to write about.
January 9, 2004
Divinations from the Beyond
Solomon Gorky peered at his analog watch, and then gazed outside, "approximation of 57 degrees Fahrenheit, light wind estimated to be 5 mph. Conclusion: "this warrants my donning either a scarf and thick sweater, or the red ill sculptured windbreaker." Wanting to look intellectual rather than panhandler chic, he topped the sweater and carefully laid the wool scarf across his thin frame. Peering at his reflection, he brushed the wisps that radiated from his pensive face, and he continued to think of her. He'd only seen her the week before, prancing on 55th, braced against the slag of humanity, the embodied essence of the feminine.
Today he trod the same ground, hoping to catch sight of her. Rounding towards University, he stepped amidst the hum of angst and immaturity, Kierkegaard mixed with Korn, Baudilard to Budweiser. Squeals of "Cute!" lumped with dialectical hemorrhaging, so sang the elite masses. He hated walking: the sludge would cuddle his soles and the wind whipped bitter blows. Reaching the street crossing he recited, "But though I do not stop for cars they kindly stop for me," a declaration he would later regret. To keep his mind occupied, he thought about his classes, "dull," his social life, "nonexistent," his refrigerator, "sparse." This only fed his attraction, "without her I have nada so I can only pray to the nada who art in heaven while limping from one clean well lighted place to another, always ending up in the same 24 hour grocery mart."
He wondered if he'd ever see her again, if even it were best that he never chance upon her so that she could be preserved, a silent sacrosanct icon. Gorky walked worrying, deviating between the passion and the fear. Though he felt for her, within a relationship his neuroticism would negate her into a reversal of what she had represented. Then, she'd be a walking hypocrisy, an obsequious Uriah Heep. He then thought about himself, contradictions multifarious, furious in their tenacities. "I feel as the Sultan with his harem of femme fatales, they nail me beyond pleasure and screw my coffin, snuffing me amidst their jealous grasps. Each of my selves wishes to claim dominance, to create unity, but doing so would be self-diminishment."
"Perhaps I love her as some love money, she represents a force that can satisfy my most variegated desires. Believing in her, I awake each day with some purpose, my implacable hunger for meaning is assuaged. Logically, this is delusional, I could criticize myself for romanticizing lust but the austere sentiments I hold for her are not trellis in their desires as with my former lusts. I don't know--I know hardly anything worthwhile and my life is a symptom of rebellion stifled beneath the wool of conformity. I only dip my toe within, venturing neither in nor out, superficial and indefinite. The only meaning I have in my atheism is she. This isn't just about sex, I no longer worry about continence, this concerns the transcendental, the abstraction hoisted upon ramparts; while my mind reifies, my spirit objects materialist doctrines. What is she? She is an object to which I’ve accorded fantastic promises, my imago. Soon I’ll be thinking, "If I do this she'll be more attracted to me," and why not, for i've objectified much of myself into her being, I don't know who she is. The question exists, do I care? Currently, no, I will not be forced to accept the contradictions until we meet and converse. Until then, as I attach more to her, she cannot rip them away, so she lays in my memory, idiotic in her patchwork of me's, a doll of my ideals donning incongruent dress, thought hideous by those who love unity. Even so, even though my ideas are construed superstitions that hold little bearing upon reality, they are real in their effects, I love her.
Then, he saw her. The doubts extinguished and euphoria thumped with her tail, loyalty embalmed their miens and they mutually drooled.
"I think she likes me!"
Aug. 5, 2003
Workers at Mcdonalds Can Now Read at the 8th grade Level
Nationwide, fast food workers have become more coiffed, and educated. Largely
due to the state of our anemic economy, hung over and drugged up workers have
slowly been replaced by ever so slightly senile citizens who will no longer
threaten to "blast your ass" when you complain about bad service. Peter
Grimes, fast food conniseur, comments, "Though my major complaints now center
on the meat being overdone, and smelling faintly of gardenias and denterol, it
is still an improvement over the slapdash grilling by young hooligans."
Though quantitative data shows that the US economy is making a comeback, there
has been a trickle down effect along the job heirarchy. As better qualified
workers have been laid off from jobs that actually require such skills
as "thinking" and "reading beyond mcdonald-lingo," they have been forced to
find work that they previous thought beneath them. Alice Corall muses, "I used
to be an executive assistant at an Accounting firm, then times got tough and
they had to let some people go. I was one of them. This isn't the first time
i've been handed the pink slip, so I didn't worry too much. Then I started
searching for a new job, and it went on for weeks, then months. Finally, when
all I had in my refrigerator, was a can of cheese whiz, I looked at the help
wanted sign at my local Burger King, and filled out an application." Given her
ability to speak english, and excellent arm for dunking fries, she was hired.
Teenagers, hoping to get a summer job so as to avoid dressing in "poor clothes"
like their welfare parents, have been feeling the pain. "Oh damn, last year,
things were sooo good, I just walked right in, told them that i'm fucking
responsible though I got detox treatment 8 times, and they told me to come back
on Monday. This year, they take one look at my fine ensemble[pink latex mini-
skirt and black tanktop with "skank" embroidered in gold thread] and told me
that they already had too many people. In line behind her, stood eager workers
suited and tied by dire need.
June 9, 2003
On Thursday, February 27, students from Washington High School in Cincinnati, Ohio congregated within the school Cafeteria to hold a peace protest. Driven by peer pressure and a moral indignation, over 100 students attended the rally, many of whom belonged to "The Alliance for Liberal Virtues."
They were soon met by ignorant, fox-news watching, detention evading dregs, otherwise known as "teenage Bush supporters." They came to mock, but ended up only mocking themselves. When the school, "bad boys," decided to go up against, ivy-league bound, "good girls," a pathetic mode of discourse resulted.
"It is a fundamental travesty to attack Iraq without the support of the UN. In doing so, the United States risks further maligning its reputation for years to come." -- AP Nerd
"Oh..Yeah!?! Uh..well...screw the rest of the world. We don't f*cking need them"
--Community College Hopeful
While the anti-war faction took turns standing on the cafeteria table and expressing their views, the pro-war faction continued their heckling. However, they soon succumbed to boredom and walked off to engage in a rowdy session of "King of the Hill" on a neighboring cafeteria table.
Eventually, after one of them banged his head on a chair, thus decreasing his already meager I.Q. score by another 20 points, they wandered back, and continued voicing their pro-war views. Alex Schmitt, 12, issued the Washington High School Pro-War Manifesto when he proclaimed:
"I believe that America, the America that I love, shouldn't have to live in fear. After 9-11, God has given us the thumbs up to bomb the living smithereens out of Iraq. My pastor says, "Go home, and pray not for peace like those hippie doves, go and pray for destruction." I believe that those Osama-luvin Muslims should die, God would want it that way. There's no reason not to go to war against Iraq, Saddam was asking for it. Yes, he was asking for it, just like my girl, Anna when she talked to Chad behind my back, by the way, she's still at the hospital."
Outside observers like Samantha Rawlins, 10, commented on the discrepancies between the pro-war and anti-war groups.
"The pro-war groups don't seem to be that prepared. The anti-war groups seem to know a lot of information and are able to support their claims."
Jason Adams, 12, admitted that "I didn't know that there was going to be a peace protest so I made a sign out of some book covers that were lying in the back of the classroom." This explains why a L'Oreal shampoo advertisement is splashed over, "You know who's uglier than Saddam?? Your Mom." The mysteries of why another "your mom," joke would be appropriate for a counter-protest poster lie in the deep recesses of Jason's pot-warped mind.
May 18, 2003
The Mexico Where Bad Children Go
Robert Mullins, 16, woke up on the 20th of June to the packed fists of his escort, Alfonso Hernandez. "It was terrifying, he kinda loomed over me and told me that I was going with him. I didn't know what the hell was going on and thought that I was being kidnapped." Robert, in fact, was being kidnapped, although with parental consent. Led into a small dingy, Toyota Corolla, he was driven from his home in Palo Alto to a self-advertised, "fun international retreat," La Casa by the Sea.
Le Casa, a recently instituted correctional facility for rebellious children of professional yuppies, seemed like an attractive choice for his bereaved parents, Sharon and Jason Mullins. Sharon, IT specialist at Intel explained, "For the last 5 months, he's been progressing towards harder and harder music. It seems almost unbelievable now, but he used to listen to the Back Street Boys, he had Nick Carter posters stashed under his bed. Then, something happened, he found some non-theatre friends and began listening to Eminem, Limp Bizkit, and Korn. That's when I knew that we had to be proactive parents and prevent our son from getting dred-locks and spending his days smoking crack in our basement. Then one day, I was searching on-line and found the Website for La Casa by the Sea. So I sent for the tape and watched it with Jason. It seemed like a Club Med resort, and they showed happy clean-cut former rebels quoting Wordsworth, and plugging away at multivariate calculus. What most impressed us was when the students proclaimed that they only listen to Polka music and would never want to touch filth like Eminem ever again. We felt that we'd be terrible parents if we deprived him of such an educational, international character-adjustment opportunity."
When Robert reached La Casa by the sea, the scene was much more Bergen-Belsen and much less, Club Med with daiquiris and subservient Mexicans. These Mexicans were hardly subservient. One punched him in the nose as a self-introduction then explained in halting English that "We speak no English here, now, only speak Spanish," while consulting his dictionary and lacing the awkward pauses with awkwardly painful pummels.
His fellow students hobbled along the dry, desert grounds, demoralized and catonic with shaved heads and striped uniforms. "Oh damn...I felt like I was living Schindlers List. Oh fuck, I told myself, when they shaved me, gave me a small bar of soap and told me to enter the shower, I thought I was going to die." After Robert was treated to shower water funneled from a local river contaminated by a festive cocktail of industrial pollutants, he was led to his bunk, a decrepit creation built by camp members before him. While Jose, his "house father," explained a few of the basic rules. Robert nodded, shell-shocked, as he was told that Le Casa operated on a level-ascension system. Given that one is obedient, one can hope to rise to level 4, 5, and 6, earning the title of, "junior staff member," and given the training to inflict sadistic torture upon lower ranked residents.
Robert is still residing at La Casa by the Sea. His parents initially felt a strong sense of guilt, but it has been appeased by typed letters saying that "Robert is very happy, he is eating well, studying well, and does not even wish to come home. He loves it here."
Robert spends his days weaving wicker chairs, participating in strenuous marches of dubious import, and planning his escape. He has already abandoned the idea of contacting his parents. After inquiring about email or postal service, he was told that his parents had moved away, and that they didn't leave their new address. Subsisting on thin wafers and gruel, Robert has become anemic. With his previously rotund frame now skeletal, he's considering seducing Raoul, the hip swiveling, salsa dancing, guard for a small piece of ham.
May, 9, 2003
Businessman Arrives Home to the Waiting Arms of $67.23 Tent
Alex Wang, 48, executive of Avarice Corp., returned from a Hong-Kong to the closed doors of his Tudor Home. The locks had been switched and the garage code reset. Frustrated and confused, he pounded the bolted door until his hands were bruised and raw. After 20 minutes had passed, his cell-phone began playing "yellow river," it was his wife, Susan. Tearfully, voice drenched with contrition, she explained that she simply couldn't let him into the house for fear that he would spread the SARS virus to the rest of the family, consisting of herself and the two chow-chows, Xing Xing and Ling Ling. Alex was horrified, Susan had previously been the epitome of passivity, enduring the pampered life of a suburbanite mother of two canines without complaint. Why was she now acting so neurotically?
In all fairness, Alex Wang, aside from being a "good provider," was a lousy husband. Previous trips to Hong Kong had resulted in the importation of Herpes, Gonahhea, Syphilis and Crabs from the prostitute, Lucky Wonton, to himself. These products were subsequently shipped home to his dear wife, Susan, who had no qualms about STDs but regarded SARS with paranoia. She, along with the majority of the NYC Chinese community demonstrated racial cohesion by joining together, and dining in the local Applebees instead, shunning the small, nearly bankrupt restaurants of China Town. While the ribs tasted "yucky," she cried that eating at Applebees is still a "far far better thing to do than expose myself to contamination from dirty just off the boat Chinese immigrants."
Alex spat, tore apart the tent, overturned the hot soup, intelligently burning himself into the process. He then hailed a cab to the Lincoln hotel, picking Titiana, West-End Prostitute, along the way. They throughly enjoyed themselves, and completed one another's STD charts.
Alex, it turned out, wasn't infected with SARS. Two weeks later, his wife welcomed him home with open arms. That evening she cooked, cleaned, and participated in unprotected sex.
Final quote from Mrs. Wang: "Yes, I believe in protecting myself from dangerous viruses. That is why I am so careful when it comes to the SARS virus. One can never be two careful, that's my rational for no longer walking near China town. In fact, I've begun to avoid even talking to Chinese people, but I'll talk to my husband. He's been quarantined. He's safe!"
April 22, 2003
Prom Story--"A la Carrie"
**I've decided to resurrect Joe the UMPTYM Guy (his story can be found in the UMPTYM section of this site) for the "are you a social-pariah" litmus test that is Prom. Those who do not attend prom can follow me in building their own hermit abodes. After failing to attend senior prom, one cannot hope to acheive even a semblance of normalcy. If one does not wish to go with someone even dorkier than themselves, waste hundreds of dollars in preparation, and dance the night away, one must contend with being a freak for eternity.
Thus begins the sequel to Joe the UMPTYM Guy
Joe, awakened by the recurrent beeps of his preset alarm, knew that it was time. He dug, slowly and methodically with a small spoon. After several hours of streneous work Joe freed himself from the worm-heaven crypt. His appearances had altered little, for his mathhematical piety allowed him to maintain his pallid mathemitician's bloom.
"Hmm. I must now set out to find myself a date. The ordinary will not do, I must find an extraordinary girl, who's as mathematically inclined as I. If she does exist, I will create her with my Frankenstein Inc. labkit. I will scour this graveyard for parts, and bring my creation to the prom."
So Joe proceeded to visit homes of all female math team captains in the entire state of Minnesota. There were only two eligible matches, Amanda Chang and Christina Wollins. He visited the home of one, and found her to be engaged in a passionate lovers embrace with the other. Joe had no choice but to begin the assembalation of his prom date.
In his younger brother Jon he found an Igor. "Igor fetch me an arm, an good strong arm, that can clutch a protracter with the best of them." "Igor, fetch me hands, hands that can punch numbers into the TI-89 with superhuman rapidity." "Igor, find me a brain, a brain that operates based on pure-logic, a brain that is worthy of mine own." Igor, after fuming about "Igor do this..Igor do that..." decided to disobey his master, and find an utterly inapporpriate brain. "A stupid brain is what I need, where do I find a stupid brain?" The answer was obvious, the Sigma Chi graveyard. "Ditzy girls no smart like master want, but fuck master, master send deformed hunchback to do his work, master treat me with no respect. I want R E S P E C T, I know what it means to me..." Humming Aretha Franklin, Igor sliced upon the head of the former sweetheart of sigma chi, and extracted the brain.
Joe toiled liked a frenzied maniac. After 2 days, he exaltantly pulled the lever, issuing a shock of electricity that brought his creation to life. Meanwhile, Igor maintained a safe distance, and slowly began inching away from the door. "Oh..I'm so happy to be alive. Isn't the world beautiful! I want world peace. I want universal rights to blondness for all. I don't know anything, but I can flash my a-ok smile! Isn't makeup fun? Let's go party." Sounding like a broken conversational barbie doll, Sue awoke.
"But, you're not what I wanted!!! You do not have the brain of a mathematician! Yet, your invigorating cheerfulness and delectable beauty entices me." So, Joe, powered by his testosterone and forgoing the protests of his intellect, kept Sue.
The day of the prom came around. Sue brushed Joe's withered scalp, and remarked about how handsome he looked in his newl y bought suit. "You're almost as clammy as the old millionaire I was with in the 1930's, it's such an attractive quality in a man." Joe felt quite proud of his clamminess, and linked his arm up with Sue's. Together, they shuffled all 39 miles to the site of the Prom. As they walked in, the ornate ballroom fell to a deafening silence. The site of two corpses, standing side side was not horrifying. Rather, it was the sight of a popular blond with a math team dork that appalled. "They can not be!! Cried Ben, it's against the fucking natural order, it's like her going out with a St. Bernard." Sue was soon led away by the football captain, and poor Joe stood without a date. His fury could no longer be contained, he had too wreak havoc upon the class of 2003. His hidden powers of telepathy revealed, he called out to all metal protracters within a 10 mile radius. They heeded his word, and organized themselves into seperate platoons. The slide rulers soon followed, and the pocket protectors provided additional assistance. Every unfortunate in the room soon met with a barrage of mathematical tools. Each attendee, aside from dear Joe of course, could expect to be pricked by protractors, bitch-slapped by slide rulers and suffocated by a pocket protector.
The next day, gory photos plastered the national dailies. "409 killed by Telepathic Math-Genius Zombie," announced the St. Paul Pioneer Press.
Bush had to make a speech addressing the tragedy. He comforted the grieving nation by saying, "We are united, not divided by the zombie murder spree. That is why I am putting out 29 million for anyone who brings me the twice dead head of Joe the UMTYMP Guy. While you're at it, bring me Osama Bin-Laden, Saddam Huseein, and the pretzel that committed a tresonous act by asolving to kill me. Pretzel, if you're out there, I know you can hear me, I'm just telling you that I got my eye on you. BOTH eyes, and you're not going nowhere."
Meanwhile, the Joe is out there......[Insert X-Files Soundtrack]
April 8, 2003
Michelle awoke one morning to find herself transformed into a Psychoanalyst. Dressed in a brown tweed jacket, with hair in the style of renowned fashion leader Bill Gates, she was no longer the old Michelle. Her voice had dropped two octaves and developed a strong Austrian accent. Her daily routine had even changed, instead of jamming plastic contact lenses into her eyes, she now carefully placed a pair of wire rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose. After putting on a polka dotted tie, she stopped to admire her reflection in the mirror. "My orange polka dotted tie matches so perfectly with my brown tweed suit" she thought, satisfied with her sufficiently bizarre appearance, and ambled downstairs.
Her mother stood in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. "Good Morning Mother," Michelle exclaimed, causing her mother to turn around in surprise, dropping the metal spatula and nearly falling down along with it. "WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO YOU?!?!?!?! WHY ARE YOU SO …….SOOOOOOO…….TALL? You've grown so tall, just like I always said you would. Remember the conversation we had last week about how your genes had to kick in sometime? Well now look at yourself, they finally have!"
"Yes Mother, I am significantly taller, I am also significantly hairier and have developed a rash on my….well, it's better to leave that unsaid. Please, let me quickly eat my breakfast, for my id grows stronger every moment I am in your presence; soon, it will overwhelm me, forcing me to kill dad with a plastic toilet plunger and drive off with you to the nearest casino where we can be married in style for $68.99, by a fat man dressed in an Elvis Suit of fake Pleather."
Michelle hurried out the door, her superego barely succeeding in reigning in her raging id. As usual, Michelle drove her Toyota Camry to Mounds View High School. The traffic was even heavier than usual, and Michelle's conscience desperately strove to prevent her from giving in to her Thanatos and going on a violent driving spree. Of course, Michelle was completely unaware of her murderous intentions. She drove with utmost care, cutting a car off here and there, knocking over a mailbox, and running over the maggot ridden corpse of an opossum. Meanwhile, in her subconscious, WWII raged on. The dueling powers of id and superego bombarded each other, not with bombs and mortar but with words. "Michelle must behave like a law abiding citizen. She cannot overstep societal norms." "Kill! Kill! Kill! The little blind boy scout walking with his seeing eye dog is practically begging to be smashed into." "Societal Norms! Moral Laws! Michelle cannot kill, she is a peace loving citizen, she is just like the nice old lady in Psycho, she wouldn't hurt a fly…." All this while, Michelle drove, oblivious to the intense activity under the surface of her consciousness, listening to the morning news and daydreaming about her ideal sofa.
Michelle entered the newly renovated halls of Mounds View High School. Her new look elicited a barrage of whispers and open mouthed stares. "Who is that freak??" questioned 10th grader Sara Adams. "Gawd….he looks worse than Stephen Hawking," her friend, Janice Woodward replied. "You're sooooo right, Sara, he is soooooo weird. I think he HAS to be colorblind." As Michelle walked to her first period Statistics class, an increasingly large number of people gossiped about "the weird colorblind guy." Sam Johnson, wearing his soiled Metallica Rulz shirt and clearly exhibiting an anal expulsive personality, eloquently critiqued Michelle's new style, as "D*mn crazy. What the F*** is an old geezer like him doing in Mounds View High School? He kinda looks like a science or math teacher cuz he dresses like that, but he's wearing a backpack. He might juz be some poor brother who can't pay for no briefcase, so maybe I shouldn't say no more sh** about him. He looks pretty whacked out so he might be one of those real old special ed retards. Still, I don't know….."
Michelle reacted to the whispering, pointing, and nervous giggles with liberal usage of the defense mechanism, Denial. "I'm cool. I'm accepted. They're simply whispering to one another about how much they seek to emulate me. Even if I'm having a bad body, face, hair, clothes, and teeth day, they can't be ridiculing me." After setting down her book bag and retrieving a pencil and notepad from her pocket, she proceeded to analyze the students in room 202. Soon, her vapid attacks on those around her caused the room to erupt in fierce protest. "I am not in love with my mother. She sits at home all day long, watching talk shows and drinking Budweisers. She weighs over 500 pounds!" "I don't have an oral fixation because I chew gum. Everyone chews gum!!." Finally, unable to endure the continual torment of Michelle's psychoanalytic views due to their inability to face their personal demons and catalyze the healing process, her classmates throw her into a nearby pond and watch with glee, their ids dancing with joy, as she sinks to the bottom, joining a multitude of dead cats, pigs, and frogs who were also victims of cruel torture in the hands of high school students.
Alas! It seems that there is no room in this world for a lone psychoanalyst, there is no room for talk of Oedipal Fantasies and Phallic Stages. A great tragedy has befallen this country. Michelle the Psychoanalyst has died. The importance of this event has not yet been realized, but soon her fame will spread across the land. People will sing the Ballad of Psychoanalyst Michelle and the college campuses will hum with talk of civilization and it's discontents. Sofa sales will be on the rise. In no more than 50 years, Michelle will be rightfully declared a martyr and given due honor for dying because of her strongly held beliefs. God help us all, for we have killed the most precious of human beings, we have killed a psychoanalyst!!
March 21, 2003
Three Partially Fictional Writings
Seperated by the time frame within which, they were supposedly written.
(Not written by anyone on the staff of either the Viewer or the OV)
I. March 2003
The vocal minority took to the pulpit and decried the passage of the budget referendum. They were heard, and the referendum was not passed. The consequences of their selfish actions are extensive, and painful to students and teachers alike. Facing a severe fiscal crisis, aggravated by previous acts of financial irresponsibility as evidenced by the spending of money on $50 atomic clocks which each run on their own time, dozens of some of the most talented, popular, teachers at MV have lost their jobs.
The next academic year should be eye-opening. With an average of 40+ students per class, teachers will undoubtably face a roller-coaster dip in morale, experiencing at times, such moments of hellish exasperation that they'll enroll in "how to be an air traffic controller classes," knowing in their minds, that "anything is better than this." The students will be the most disadvantaged, packed into sweltering classrooms, they'll feel empathy for children in places like India and Pakistan. Luckily, this situation is not quite as dire as it sounds, at least one person has benefited from the situation. Jonathan Samuelson, owner of "Double Decker Desks International," has made a tidy profit from a sharp spike in sales. "Next year, MV students will be using my desks. I think they'll have a good time, it'll be fun, it'll be a lot like Bunk Beds. The first day, they'll get to choose a desk partner, and negotiate who'll get to be on top. My desks are already being used in a first grade class in Beijing, China, it's working out really well. The only piece of advice I'd give is to choose a desk partner who's under 80 lbs. In Beijing, when they had the 6th graders use our desks, one little girl died because her desk partner fell on her."
Next year's students have a lot to lot to look forward to, being taught by teachers who are more depressed than rodeo clowns, feeling suppressed and unheard in a class of an unhealthy size, luckily, they have one hope for salvation.....being squashed by their "double-deck desk partner." Suddenly, the obese kids will be overwhelmingly popular, for once, they will be the first to be chosen.
II. June 2003
The teachers who have been sent pink slips, have experienced a rise in their fortunes. According to Mrs. Wikelius, "Thanks to the generous help of a corporate sponser, all of the teachers who have lost their jobs have been guaranteed a well-paying position at their local taco bells." Now, the teachers will feel financially secure knowing that they have a lucrative career in chalupa making awaiting them.
III. September 2003
Ben Geissler, April Isola, and Rich Werner have each become comfortably situated in their new "careers" at the Taco Bell's on Snelling. Ben Geissler and April Isola are working the cash registers, while Rich Werner is out in the back microwaving tacos.
Isola initially had a "bit of trouble" adjusting to her new work environment, but after placing her harvard cube next to her on her cash register, and consuming large amounts of perk-a-lot, "life is good." She's been putting her extensive knowledge to good use by teaching Raoul, the dishwasher, advanced mathematical techniques like "fraction-addition." When I spoke to Raoul, it was clear that he was exceptionally proud of his new mastery of fraction addition, "Like Ms. Isola says, life is good. With fraction addition, I'm just one step closer to becoming the best crack dealer I can be. When she teaches me fraction multiplication, I'll be set."
Ben Geissler has had no trouble adjusting, "I really didn't know how cash registers worked, but as I did with teaching Biology, I learned by doing. When I first became a biology teacher, I learned with my students. When I started working at Taco Bells, I just started pressing buttons and it worked." The viewettes have even resumed Geissler stalking, pasting signs about his hotness on the store windows and ordering order after order of refried beans. (The only semi-healthful item on the menu)
Rich Werner is looking forward to the prospect of developing cancer in 15-20 years as a result of his extensive interaction with the microwave made in Bangaldesh by crippled toddlers. He's still in the process of completing his "Great American Novel." His new life, a shi**y one of quiet desperation, has enabled him to portray shi**y to new details. While his previous writing was contained to musings about nature, his new essays have titles like, "On Being Scalded By Hot Burning Cheese," and "So that's where the rats have gone." His collection of essays will undoubtably be published, for there is a large, literary audience that revels in reading about lives that make there own seem blessed.
*In the original version, I included a complimentary section, I've chosent to omit it because this site merely deals with humor. If you're one of the teachers whom I've targeted above, ask me for a print edition and keep in mind that I think you are a fantastic teacher who will be sorely missed at MVHS.
Feb. 14, 2003
Joe Millionaire has evolved from its status as the brainchild of a creative writer into this season's most controversial show. Hailed by some as "excellent entertainment," it is condemned by others as another sign of our cultural decay. The show's basic premise is simple, 25 single women compete for the affections of a man whom they believe to be a millionaire. The catch is, he's really a 19,000 a year construction worker who models underwear on the side.
The show is, "cheap," in that it trivializes the issue of marriage, and preys on the optimistic hopes of romantic gold diggers. It's not a brilliant show and the scripted quality is transparently apparent but also, at times humorously entertaining. Opponents of Joe Millionaire must be pitied for they are trapped in a catch-22esque, situation. If they choose to ignore the, "immoral content," they must contend with fears that their inaction will lead to a proliferation of similarly "crass" shows. However, if they wage a war of protest, they are in fact, helping Fox Corp., which seeks to differentiate itself from its peers by consistently spewing out lowbrow television like "Beast vs. Man," and "Temptation Island."
I, myself an occasional viewer of Joe Millionaire, find it to be quite entertaining and far superior than the insipid, unoriginal, dramas that clutter the airwaves. Though Joe Millionaire cannot be considered to be quality television, watching the show should not be considered to be unusually "brain-draining," or "morally wrong." I have few moral qualms about watching the show because the act of watching Joe Millionaire would not contribute to making me an immoral person. Instead, I am simply entertained by it's ludicrosity. The characters/contestants are so lacking in both street smarts and book smarts that their situation is none less than absurd. Joe, groomed by Fox TV to be a 21st century prince charming, makes Anna Nicole Smith look intelligent. His attempts at sounding cultured by pronouncing Champagne, CHAMPINEYAH, are rollickingly funny. The girls, who hail from such prestigious occupations, as "substitute teacher," and "assistant to real-estate broker," are hypocritical plotters who are dumbly naive. All of the participants are liars, though Joe is the greatest equivocator of them all with the help of his scripted lines and his pre-show, charm-school style briefing.
Critics of the show should focus their blame not on the show, but on our society. Television is a medium that merely reflects the undercurrents of our society, tending to respond to, rather than mold, cultural norms.