The further removed I become from college, the more inane I realize my experiences as a legal (albeit young) adult were. About eight years ago I failed Washburn's writing exam, which was an awful member of this collection of experiences.
A couple levels of context should be leveled here. First, Washburn University was an open admissions school - get your high school diploma and you get in. Or your GED. Whichever. Aside from community college (which no one attends out here on the East Coast), I'm not sure if my friends really grasp the idea of not having to 'get into' college. You just graduate from high school and you go. This is why jokes about seniors not being able to get into college perplex me.*
Don't think for two seconds I'm talking down on the students that attend Washburn. Some, yes - the campus is rolling (har har!) with nontrads at a level unknown to most college campuses. However, our mock trial team took 3rd nationally my freshman year. And there are no divisions in this activity - we weren't competing against comparable institutions. First place was Virginia and second was Harvard. We kicked the shit out of schools that have average ACT scores of 28-30. Georgia Tech and Yale. And those bastards from Washington-St. Louis. There's no chip on my shoulder, just highlighting that despite its low floor Washburn still enjoyed a high ceiling. We had kids would (literally) nail 179 on the LSAT, but were too modest to choose a private school at the age of 17.
I've digressed masterfully here, which may be one of my principal problems. Circling back to the writing exam, this is a written test given to all students to determine whether they must take English 201. 201 is a remedial course that must be completed before taking the junior English course, which must be completed by all students. A bit under 10 percent of the student body must take EN201. These are the kids that can't right good. Each essay is individually graded on a scale of 1-5, and the recipients of ones must take EN201. Easy enough - don't get a one.
I got a one.
The average ACT score at Washburn is 21 (equivalent to a score of 980-1010 on the SAT), and the bottom decile hovers around 17-18 (820-890). There's nothing wrong with falling in that range - someone has to squish into that end of the bell curve - but I'm a damn elitist. The notion of falling here kills pieces of me. Large, kill the dinosaurs asteroid-sized pieces. I wrote papers for money my freshman year, and provided partial refunds for non-As. I killed the the GRE writing exam. My work has been featured on Yahoo! and Sports Illustrated (ok, maybe I do have a chip on my shoulder). Point is, I shouldn't have fallen into the one category. And worst of all, there's no way to protest your score - you simply get shepherded onto the dolt track and live the rest of your life in embarrassment. I did not know a single friend who took English 201.
And neither did I. Washburn requires a freshman and junior English course, at minimum, and a sophomore English course to boot for the dumb-dumbs. Yet I only sat in on one English class during four years there. Not a semester course, mind you, but one, single, 75-minute class. Never went back. Still got my BA (I'd share more, but you know how I hate divulging trade secrets). Every system can be hacked if you're determined enough.
*Fearful of appearing to lie by omission, there are admittedly prescribed actions an incoming student must take if they don't meet some sort of minimum ACT/GPA criterion. The degree process will take longer due to the necessity of remedial coursework by approximately a semester, but this does not preclude enrollment in and of itself. GED still gets you in.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
How I Lost Half My Right Arm (Part II)
(Part I found here.)
There are several keys to game theory. When the game enters the point of brinksmanship, the man that stands to lose a multi-billion dollar investment loses every time. I agreed to help hunt down the marauding creatures, but on my particulars. Everyone armed with either a Franchi SPAS-12 - 12 gauge or a Kalashnikov. Shoot to kill. All men under my immediate command. I had to browbeat an ex-Marine into leaving his M16 behind, but the argument was necessary with my life on the line – I ain’t gonna risk my life over a Russia versus America principle invoking some damn jam-prone gun. Claymores. Mark’em on a map if you’re worried about other dinosaur casualties and want to safely detonate them up later, but it’s easier having one of them raptors go the way of an unlucky Cambodian cow than face it mano-a-mano.
The mines quickly paid off, as we discovered one crying out in pain within hours. One indiscriminate killer had taken another’s leg at the hip, and the raptor had almost bled out by the time we arrived. Its partner demonstrated a ruthless mentality, as only pieces of the bait goat were found and a second set of tracks leading to the machine shed were left behind. The lucky one sat there gnawing on brunch while its partner lay crying in pain. Literally cold blooded.
With ½ the threat eliminated, an obvious change consumed the men. They became less vigilant, almost cocky. Personally, I liked my chances better with two raptors and an alert crew than a set of careless cowboys hunting a solitary bird. Johnson was the first to go down – wandered off alone to piss in the bushes without a lookout. His screams made the company walk a little warier. We’d gone from 7-on-2 to 6-on-1. The new ratio was an improvement, but a betting man would be well advised pursuing a different gamble.
I never underestimate an enemy, but the raptor showed more intellectual instinct than anyone could have predicted. I still take full responsibility for Frenchie’s death, as I failed to fully vet the suggestion preceding his demise. The other men thought we could somehow coax the raptor into the open, and the former Foreign Legion sniper would do the rest with a Hecate II that had lain waste more to than a couple Taliban rebels. So he scurried up a tree while the rest of us set the trap: another goat, this time deliberately injured. Between the scent of blood and cries of pain and fear filling the air, we knew this temptation would be too great to resist. Had to be.
Approximately 2 hours into his wait, Frenchie moved to gain a better view. The branch he stepped on was termite-riddled and frail. It snapped, and he went plunging 20 feet into the underbrush. Following were the same blood-curdling screams let loose by Johnson that morning. That bastard wasn’t interested in our trap – he’d set his own. Rather than approach our well-armed group, he sat patiently waiting for a prey he knew would eventually come down. The raptor never even had to chase his quarry. Broken leg splintering through the skin, Frenchie had zero chance of escaping. 5-on-1.
No idea what happened to Richards. One minute he’s climbing a ravine to scope out the surrounding territory, the next he’s missing. We searched for over an hour. No trace. No sign of struggle, no remains, no trampled vegetation, nothing. At this point, Adams decided he’d had enough. Chickenshit jumped into a jeep, made a run for the helipad, and piloted off with the helicopter. It was 3-on-1, and time to call back your bookie.
(To Be Continued…)
There are several keys to game theory. When the game enters the point of brinksmanship, the man that stands to lose a multi-billion dollar investment loses every time. I agreed to help hunt down the marauding creatures, but on my particulars. Everyone armed with either a Franchi SPAS-12 - 12 gauge or a Kalashnikov. Shoot to kill. All men under my immediate command. I had to browbeat an ex-Marine into leaving his M16 behind, but the argument was necessary with my life on the line – I ain’t gonna risk my life over a Russia versus America principle invoking some damn jam-prone gun. Claymores. Mark’em on a map if you’re worried about other dinosaur casualties and want to safely detonate them up later, but it’s easier having one of them raptors go the way of an unlucky Cambodian cow than face it mano-a-mano.
The mines quickly paid off, as we discovered one crying out in pain within hours. One indiscriminate killer had taken another’s leg at the hip, and the raptor had almost bled out by the time we arrived. Its partner demonstrated a ruthless mentality, as only pieces of the bait goat were found and a second set of tracks leading to the machine shed were left behind. The lucky one sat there gnawing on brunch while its partner lay crying in pain. Literally cold blooded.
With ½ the threat eliminated, an obvious change consumed the men. They became less vigilant, almost cocky. Personally, I liked my chances better with two raptors and an alert crew than a set of careless cowboys hunting a solitary bird. Johnson was the first to go down – wandered off alone to piss in the bushes without a lookout. His screams made the company walk a little warier. We’d gone from 7-on-2 to 6-on-1. The new ratio was an improvement, but a betting man would be well advised pursuing a different gamble.
I never underestimate an enemy, but the raptor showed more intellectual instinct than anyone could have predicted. I still take full responsibility for Frenchie’s death, as I failed to fully vet the suggestion preceding his demise. The other men thought we could somehow coax the raptor into the open, and the former Foreign Legion sniper would do the rest with a Hecate II that had lain waste more to than a couple Taliban rebels. So he scurried up a tree while the rest of us set the trap: another goat, this time deliberately injured. Between the scent of blood and cries of pain and fear filling the air, we knew this temptation would be too great to resist. Had to be.
Approximately 2 hours into his wait, Frenchie moved to gain a better view. The branch he stepped on was termite-riddled and frail. It snapped, and he went plunging 20 feet into the underbrush. Following were the same blood-curdling screams let loose by Johnson that morning. That bastard wasn’t interested in our trap – he’d set his own. Rather than approach our well-armed group, he sat patiently waiting for a prey he knew would eventually come down. The raptor never even had to chase his quarry. Broken leg splintering through the skin, Frenchie had zero chance of escaping. 5-on-1.
No idea what happened to Richards. One minute he’s climbing a ravine to scope out the surrounding territory, the next he’s missing. We searched for over an hour. No trace. No sign of struggle, no remains, no trampled vegetation, nothing. At this point, Adams decided he’d had enough. Chickenshit jumped into a jeep, made a run for the helipad, and piloted off with the helicopter. It was 3-on-1, and time to call back your bookie.
(To Be Continued…)
Monday, January 17, 2011
How I Lost Half My Right Arm (Pt. I)
They appeared in my office one day, without appointment or notification. Said they had an offer - a once-in-a-lifetime one. I've unearthed a Brachylophosaurus in Montana and was chased for two days by Marxist rebels half-way into a dig involving a family of Sauropods in Colombia. To me, once-in-a-lifetime offers are a dime a dozen. Such language mildly piques my interest, nothing more.
What did intrigue me was the secrecy with which they concealed their project. The bombasity I typically encounter when someone's selling me an endeavor leaves the purveyor promising a mountain of opportunity that we both damn well know equates to a moll hill. These guys were different - desperate. I'd never encountered such desperation coupled with a refusal to divulge information. I knew something big was sitting in my lap, but couldn't tell whether big would land me in prison, a casket, or on the cover of national geographic. Ask any of my ex-wives, and they'll all tell you it doesn't matter. I've lived enough lifetimes for a dozen people, but a baker's is always better. The intrigue was too much. I was in.
Grad students spending their summer at a dig site think I'm one of the best because of my ability to delicately part fossils from their earthen coffins. They're wrong on two counts. First, I'm not one of the best - I'm the best. Second is the why; I can navigate out of a situation like a real life Jason Bourne. I'm James Bond without the pretty face and frilly drinks. Any asshole can dig a hole in Nebraskan loam. No one else can play two warring tribes in Saharan Africa against each long enough to expertly recover a set of petrified remains, let alone demonstrate the balls to secure the site before escaping once the tribes turn their machetes towards their white invaders. They didn't want me for these callused yet delicate hands - they wanted me because I'm as cool under fire as they come.
Boast as I might, nothing could have prepared me for when we landed on that island and first witnessed those beasts wandering the land; eonic anachronisms millions of years past their prime. Yet there they were, roaming before us. I'm normally quiet by choice. This was the first time in my life that, left with the choice, I was truly unable to fill the silence.
Three days of catered meals and behavioral observation lulled me into state of euphoria and security I should have recognized as false. Three days to scrutinize the social, physical, and intellectual properties these brilliant specimens displayed. Over dinner that night, a layer of their secrecy was peeled away. Michael, the prinicipal funder and typically jovial leader became quite serious:
"We have a problem with one of the dinosaurs."
"Which one?"
"The raptor."
"You never mentioned a raptor."
"…"
"You didn't bring me here to simply observe your magnificent genetic breakthrough, did you?"
"You're here because you're the best."
"How many?"
"Two."
"How long?"
"Five days. This is why we were so insistent on your expedited arrival."
"So you've got a pair of the most adept killers the animal kingdom has ever known working in tandem to terminate every specimen on this island you've spent billions of dollars and likely decades of work to create."
"Correct."
"No."
"No what?"
"Seemed direct to me. 'no,' as in, I won't do it. I'm ready to head back to the main land."
"Mr. Thoman, you act as though we present to you a choice. The fact of the matter is, no helicopter or boat will leave this island until the threat is subdued. You simply have no choice."
"You will require provisions eventually. Until then, I am content to wait."
"But Mr. Thoman…"
"Additionally, I believe you've revealed more then you intended with your language. 'Subdued?' You expect me to 'subdue' these monsters with the tools supplied to riot police in a Western nation? These creatures are not WTO protestors, and only a dead fool would hunt them with anything less than weapons primed for maximum lethality. Gentlemen, I have had my fill for tonight, and believe it is time to retire. I'm sure we shall revisit this issue in the morning over breakfast."
"We shall, Mr. Thoman. However, we suggest you not tarry too long before changing your mind - your room is, unfortunately, not primed with the best security to thwart all dangers. I hope this situation can only expedite your willingness to reconsider your options."
"Good night, sir."
(To be continued...)
What did intrigue me was the secrecy with which they concealed their project. The bombasity I typically encounter when someone's selling me an endeavor leaves the purveyor promising a mountain of opportunity that we both damn well know equates to a moll hill. These guys were different - desperate. I'd never encountered such desperation coupled with a refusal to divulge information. I knew something big was sitting in my lap, but couldn't tell whether big would land me in prison, a casket, or on the cover of national geographic. Ask any of my ex-wives, and they'll all tell you it doesn't matter. I've lived enough lifetimes for a dozen people, but a baker's is always better. The intrigue was too much. I was in.
Grad students spending their summer at a dig site think I'm one of the best because of my ability to delicately part fossils from their earthen coffins. They're wrong on two counts. First, I'm not one of the best - I'm the best. Second is the why; I can navigate out of a situation like a real life Jason Bourne. I'm James Bond without the pretty face and frilly drinks. Any asshole can dig a hole in Nebraskan loam. No one else can play two warring tribes in Saharan Africa against each long enough to expertly recover a set of petrified remains, let alone demonstrate the balls to secure the site before escaping once the tribes turn their machetes towards their white invaders. They didn't want me for these callused yet delicate hands - they wanted me because I'm as cool under fire as they come.
Boast as I might, nothing could have prepared me for when we landed on that island and first witnessed those beasts wandering the land; eonic anachronisms millions of years past their prime. Yet there they were, roaming before us. I'm normally quiet by choice. This was the first time in my life that, left with the choice, I was truly unable to fill the silence.
Three days of catered meals and behavioral observation lulled me into state of euphoria and security I should have recognized as false. Three days to scrutinize the social, physical, and intellectual properties these brilliant specimens displayed. Over dinner that night, a layer of their secrecy was peeled away. Michael, the prinicipal funder and typically jovial leader became quite serious:
"We have a problem with one of the dinosaurs."
"Which one?"
"The raptor."
"You never mentioned a raptor."
"…"
"You didn't bring me here to simply observe your magnificent genetic breakthrough, did you?"
"You're here because you're the best."
"How many?"
"Two."
"How long?"
"Five days. This is why we were so insistent on your expedited arrival."
"So you've got a pair of the most adept killers the animal kingdom has ever known working in tandem to terminate every specimen on this island you've spent billions of dollars and likely decades of work to create."
"Correct."
"No."
"No what?"
"Seemed direct to me. 'no,' as in, I won't do it. I'm ready to head back to the main land."
"Mr. Thoman, you act as though we present to you a choice. The fact of the matter is, no helicopter or boat will leave this island until the threat is subdued. You simply have no choice."
"You will require provisions eventually. Until then, I am content to wait."
"But Mr. Thoman…"
"Additionally, I believe you've revealed more then you intended with your language. 'Subdued?' You expect me to 'subdue' these monsters with the tools supplied to riot police in a Western nation? These creatures are not WTO protestors, and only a dead fool would hunt them with anything less than weapons primed for maximum lethality. Gentlemen, I have had my fill for tonight, and believe it is time to retire. I'm sure we shall revisit this issue in the morning over breakfast."
"We shall, Mr. Thoman. However, we suggest you not tarry too long before changing your mind - your room is, unfortunately, not primed with the best security to thwart all dangers. I hope this situation can only expedite your willingness to reconsider your options."
"Good night, sir."
(To be continued...)
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Midnight Run of Dave Thoman
| (To celebrate 24 hours without a cast, a commemoration) Gather 'round dear children, for quite the harrowing tale; 'tis concerning one Dave Thoman, a hero tough as nails. Studying for Public Finance, he took a study break; whilst seeking finals relief, he suffered another break. Running the trails of the Arb, one late Wednesday night; he first took a spill, then experienced a great fright. Jogging downhill, covered in snow; a nasty patch of ice he went down - oh no! Now sliding downhill, riding an ankle turned round wrong; he knew he was in trouble, in a situation he didn't belong. Lying at the base, his ankle likely sprained; fears of spending the night there began filling his brain. He tried hopping uphill on his left foot; but the slope was so slick, he simply couldn't. His first thought of 'oh shit,' manifested to 'oh fuck;' "It's below freezing outside, am I out of luck?" Crawling out now, on hands and knee; 'twas a perilous situation, we all can agree. Finally reaching entrance, his hands painfully frozen; he waves down a pedestrian, to call a cab and save'em. Refusing a ride to ER, he hoped 'twas just a sprain; but couldn't sleep all night long, due to the intense pain. A morning visit to UHS revealed a minor break, and this was when he realized the extent of his mistake. But he bravely battled onward, a Public Finance final that afternoon; not having slept and high on codeine, whose combined effects made him swoon. Dave Is Awesome |
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