Untitled Story

Well, here I am again in this decrepit excuse for a learning center. Apparently, it's being passed off as a community college these days, but I know that's only a ruse that the directors are using to cover up what's really happening within these walls. It's a brainwashing facility, through and through. They give you a little test when you enroll, it tries to establish just where you're at mentally so that 'they' know what classes to put you in. It's all basic stuff really; math, reading, writing, etc. After you finish filling out your demented 'Scantron' sheet, you place it neatly on the instructor's desk and casually walk out with a smug look on your face. After everyone else has done the same, the instructor takes them all down to the facility where they can determine everyone's course level standings. This is done by an incredibly scientific process of duct-taping each answer sheet to the anus of one out of a menagerie of assorted barnyard animals. Your course placement standings are calculated by the amount of time it takes for the animal in question to run blindfolded across a hand-plowed field with a basket of eggs strapped to its head. The fewer eggs your animal spills onto the field, the better the score you must have achieved on the exam. The bastards in charge then continue with the process of 'education', which means they place you in class levels severely below your understanding of the world in an effort to slow down the inner workings of your mind and place you on the level of the fucking foreignor sitting behind you with his thumb down his larynx. You can't have too many smart people running around in America these days, they're dangerous.

At least that's the reasoning I came up with when I found myself sitting in the 'mandatory' Academic Strategies class, which is a frivolous and unnecessary title for a study skills course. This is what happens when you decide to get shit-faced drunk the night before your placement exam, then proceed to strap baskets of eggs onto the heads of various barnyard animals and have them run across a hand-plowed field, placing bets amongst friends as to which animal would spill the least(oxen are far more graceful than your average mule, I know these things). Needless to say, I was incapacitated during said placement exam and deeply regret my immoral actions of the previous evening, which ultimately resulted in my sharing a classroom with a group of people half my intelligence. The door squeaked open, revealing an aging and somewhat jaded bitch(I smell them from miles away) of an instructor as she scurried over to her desk, clearly displaying signs of professionalism as she referred to the "fucking traffic" she just fought through to get here(despite my seeing of her in the teachers' lounge, minutes earlier, chatting up a VERY masculine looking woman).

"Okay, everyone. I am Ms. Philander, that's P-H-I...(etc.). Let's start by doing roll call!", she bellowed out with moderate enthusiasm as her flailing hands wafted the scent of six-dollar gin out of her lipstick-smeared mouth and into my nostrils. From my regretful seat in the front row, I continued to work on my museum-quality sketching of a 1969 AMC Javelin as she read out the names of my fellow classmates. Arc Flandre Murry, Hans Hermann, Anus McGillis, they were all here. Except that lummox Lee Harvey, he probably grabbed a Ruger and climbed a clock tower with a name like that. "Jonathan Delaney", the jaded instructor called out with much disdain as I raised my hand, without taking an eye off of my amazingly gifted drawing(by the time you read this, it will be in the left wing of the Smithsonian next to sushi regurgitated by George Bush Sr). She continued her rambling of names while I did my best to emulate the voluptuous shape of the Javelin's Cragar mag wheels onto notebook paper. When she rapped up the bullshit, I decided I better give this unprofessional, gin drinking, bull dyke chasing instructor a fair shot and listen to her "teachings". After all, I'm not some smug asshole who thinks he's better than everyone else, right?. So, I promptly stopped my sketching and sat upright at full attention in what I've been calling the 'Gosh, Golly!' position.

The teacher started her lecture once more, "Now, you're probably in this class because you have trouble reading. Whether you're not good at it, or you just have "something against" it, it's not a big deal. Everyone learns differently. So, let's start with a simple exercise I use to pinpoint where your weakness is located. Does anyone in here read magazines?". Hands shot up across the classroom, including my own(Kustom Kulture Deluxe is an informative publication, I tell you). "Good! Now can anyone tell me WHY they love to read magazines?", she babbled at no one in particular. "Because of all the cool pictures!", some mindless drone named Gunther replied from the back of the room, his tone was that of a future projectionist at the twenty-five cent movie theater. A knowing smile circulated across the instructor's face as she spoke to poor Gunther, "Exactly! You see, when most people "like you" read magazines, we're not actually reading them at all. We're merely looking at the pictures we like the best and reading the captions beneath them.". Heads were nodding in approval all around me, I was trying my best not to conform...because I'm cool...I think. "Now, here's where the real test comes into play. Does anyone here enjoy reading newspapers?", Ms. Philander interrogated the class as my mind sparked a rather creative notion. I shot my hand into the air as if I couldn't possibly live without reading the letters to Dear Abbey from morticians' wives who wanted to know why their husbands forced them to lay perfectly still during sex after making them soak their bodies in ice for hours. "You, there, Johnathon(she was one of those people who you just KNOW are misspelling your name, even when they're merely saying it out loud), why do you like to read newspapers?", Ms. Philander said with a curious glint in her eye, as if I was the only person who ever answered this question with a "yes". I propped back up to my 'Gosh, Golly!' postion in the chair, and let the shit pour from my brain directly to my tongue, "I enjoy reading newspapers because of all the horrific, deplorable, and gratuitous violence lurking within the innocent black type on recycled paper.". Ms. Philander was speechless, the majority of my classmates stared at me as if I had just decapitated their loved ones with a linoleum knife. I decided it was in my best interest to call it a day, and casually gathered my things and left the building.