centre of the universe - the dreaming

Here's a big shout out to all the astrologers and psychics out there: HEY! WHAT'S GOING ON!!??



No, seriously. Really. Is it me? It's the whole universe, isn't it? I'm pretty sure that's what it is. It's like all the passive aggressive mojo in the universe is focussed directly on *my* mojo, and, frankly, that's upsetting my mojo. My mojo is not pleased. And it's a Bad Idea to make my mojo angry. You wouldn't like my mojo when it's angry. It's harshing my cool. It's negating my verbs.

My mojo doesn't like being passively aggressed. My cool is No Good when it's harshed, and, well, everybody knows what happens when you negate a verb.

"cenobyte!" you call out, "doubleyou tee eff!? What is up, my sister/brother/home persun?"

Well, I'm not going to go in to details here, for the most part. Suffice it to say that the icing on the cake came today, when I realised my father's lady friend doesn't know how to spell my name. My four-letter name. Granted, it's commonly misspelled (some people put the squashed bug accent over the wrong dried spaghetti loop), but I was a little disappointed about that.

Here's a little something that should serve to disenchuffulate you if you're experiencing a similitude of poop:

Labels: Bad Mojo, piss in your eye

This really bunches my garters. It's a story about how Roman Polanski, Hollywood director and socialite, is being confined to...oh hell. I'll just quote the first sentence.

Film director Roman Polanski will be confined to his chalet in the Alpine village of Gstaad until the Swiss decide if he will be extradited to the United States for a 32-year-old sex case.

 What pisses me off isn't the palatial treatment an accused man is being "confined" to (I'd punch a nun if it meant I'd get to hang out in Gstaad for a couple of weeks. Even a Swiss nun). I want you to read that sentence really closely and see if you can catch what it is that's making me angry. Go ahead, I'll wait.

"...for a 32-year-old sex case."

Roman Polanski is not charged with sex. If sex were against the law, I'd *really* be in trouble. And so would you. Hell, we'd all resort to the bumbling antics of fourteen-year-old band students in the "instrument" room. But Roman Polanski is not charged with sex. Do you know what he is charged with?

RAPE.

When Polanski was 44 years old, he *sexually assaulted* a thirteen-year-old girl. THIRTEEN. He was convicted of "unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor" which means, say it with me, statutory rape. Do you know why there are statutory rape laws? Because generally, most thinking people understand that a THIRTEEN YEAR OLD is not in full control of their senses. Thirteen year olds still light their farts (okay, that might be a bad example in this crew...). Thirteen year olds like movies about sparkly vampires, regardless of the quality of writing, plot, or narrative. Thirteen year olds are *children*. Sure, thirteen year olds have working plumbing and dangly bits, but just because you CAN do something really doesn't mean you SHOULD.

Do you remember 13?

Your clothes didn't fit right, and you were tired and cranky most of the time, and you turned into the world's biggest bitch/dink when people treated you like anything other than the Queen/King of Sheba. Your parents knew NOTHING. They were lame, and their only job on the earth was to make your life miserable. Your parents, by insisting you eat dinner *at the table* rather than *in your room* (which smelled of goats and old cheeseburgers) were forcing you to live a miserable, tortured existence because they were NOT treating you like an adult. Your favourite thing to do on Saturdays was to watch Saturday morning cartoons, but only the ones that started after 11am. You had posters of metal bands or girl bands on your walls, right beside the posters of your favourite cartoons.

Face it. CHILDREN at thirteen, given the freedom and care to develop "normally" are caught on the cusp of something they have no idea about. They resent responsibility yet they crave freedom. Their brains are still developing, for God's sake. Their emotions are screwed up. They are beginning to mourn their childhood, and they are beginning to mourn their adulthood, and they're in a kind of sociological dormancy, like when trees lose their leaves in the fall. No child, at thirteen, should be faced with the decision of whether to sleep with a man more than THREE TIMES their age. How could you make an informed decision at that point?

And that's assuming the girl *did* make an informed decision, and that Roman Polanski honoured her decision...that is to say, that's assuming she didn't say "No". But even if she *didn't* say "No". Even if she trotted toward him in Barbie underpants and a Playtex training bra, begging him to "make her a woman", he was FORTY FOUR years old. He was an adult. THE adult. What possible enjoyment could he have been looking for in a CHILD, other than a tight snatch (and pardon my rudeness)?

What, the acne? The acne really turned the guy on? Maybe it was the way she said, "but Moooo-oooom". Or maybe it was the attitude. Perhaps she slammed her bedroom door and threw the stuffed animals on her Wonder Woman comforter at the wall in a particularly alluring manner. Or maybe he did it because he could. Because he could control her. Because he had power over her. Because he dominated her.

Roman Polanski was not charged with sex. He was charged with ASSAULT. He raped a thirteen year old girl, and then he RAN AWAY. He went to a country where he KNEW they couldn't "get him" (he stayed in countries that did not have extradition agreements with the US), even though he'd been arrested, tried, and sentenced (guilty). Sex is not a crime. Rape is.

Labels: Bad Mojo, piss in your eye

a-LARPing he will go,
a-LARPing he will go,
Hi-ho the derry-o,
a-LARPing he will go.

He'll play a yickky Nos,
he'll play a yickky Nos,
Hi-ho the derry-o,
He'll play a yickky Nos.

The cheese stands alone,
the cheese stands alone,
hi-ho the derry-o,
the cheese stands alone.

I could go on, about the Nos being the cheese, or how no one is actually the cheese; I just always rather favoured the cheese line, and always wanted to be the cheese when we played "The Farmer in the Dell". Have I mentioned how much I love cheese?

Okay, so anyway, yeah. His Nibs is off playing ...*sigh*... the LARP equivalent of herpes. Don't get me wrong. I dearly love some of the people with LARP herpes. I don't hold it against them. And I'll still LARP with His Nibs afterwards; I'm pretty sure I'm immune. I was immunized a few weeks ago. It's just that...i really, really don't want to play Vampire. And there aren't that many options at the moment if i do want to play something in the city.

So there. I've said it. Publically. Not on the suuuuuper seeecret blog, not just hand-waving and ranting in small groups.

I don't want to play Vampire.

Check that. I'm willing to try **WARNING! EXTREME NERD MATERIAL FOLLOWS. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.** New World of Darkness, depending on who's running it and who's playing. I freely admit that I am an elitist when it comes to gaming. Because this is my free time. I mean, I can have a good time doing just about anything (seriously, man. Peanuts in a cup. Most bestest entertainment EVAR), including stuff I don't like. Mostly because I decided a long time ago that I'd much rather enjoy myself than not. Wow, that was weird to type. Was that as weird to read as it was to type?

What I mean is, rather than be at lagerheads (snicker) with the folks running the game and/or the other folks playing the game, it makes more sense to choose to participate in a game that doesn't cause you stress. So by 'elitist', I guess I really mean 'utilitarian'. But not in the sense of 'utilitarian' like crotchless pantyhose; I mean 'utilitarian' in the sense of 'maximising happiness and/or minimising unhappiness'.

Crotchless pantyhose are the best thing since...erm...well...split crotch bloomers, I guess. Which in turn are the best thing since no underpants at all. Wow. How'd I get *here*?

No, I'm not standing here saying "neener neener; my game's better than your game", because a) I do not have a game; and b) well, really, I don't have a game.

I just know what I don't like. Um. And I'm comparing it to a venereal disease. Which is kind of douchey of me, I guess. Sorry about that.

Labels: crossing the line, LARP, piss in your eye

Okay, so you're having a sale. You want to get rid of your crap. But really, lady? A sale of epic proportions?

So you're planning to have (or sell) some heroes at your lengthy, narrative sale? A couple of cultural icons just strolling through? Maybe Elvis is going to be there? Possibly Lance Armstrong or Sitting Bull? Just hanging out, considering the mismatched teacups.

Or maybe you're thinking of getting yourself some fancy, fully orchestrated score to accompany your sale; maybe it's all about the human drama. Maybe people from other businesses are going to come over and tell all about their crossing to Canada, and those wavy remembery lines will take over and...no? That isn't it?

Ohhhh. You mean the kind of 'epic proportions' that involve your sale *actually* being held in some other reality, at a market where they also sell memories and loincloths for orcs. So, what you're saying is that all of your salespeople will be speaking fluent Elven and singing that song about the breeze through the leaves.

Could it be that you're considering how important that everyone *at* your sale knows they are *part* of the sale, like Brecht's dialectical theatre. Maybe that's what you mean.

Words, ma'am, ought not be tossed away like spent sunflower seed shells on the beach. It is important to know what you are saying, and what the words you use actually means. If what you *mean* is "We're having a sale in which everything in the store is on discount", then you ought to say that. Or, better yet, **TRUST THE WRITERS** you've hired to write ads for you. None of them would be caught dead describing a big summer blowout sale as "epic".

Sure, maybe a lot of people think that "epic" means simply "really big". Maybe you think that your sale will be, as they say in the dictionary, "of unusually great size or extent". And if that's the case, I expect your "sale" to encompass two city blocks, shut down traffic, and I expect your merchandise to be marked at least 70% off retail price. But I suspect that's not the case. I suspect what you mean is "we're having a big summer sale".

Okay, it's something all the kids are saying these days, and I must admit, I laugh out loud when a teenager or twenty-something says "Oh man. That exam was EPIC, man." And perhaps, if all you're trying to do with language is get your point across, I suppose you're successful. But do you really expect me to believe that that was as exciting as you could be? As creative? That the only way you know how to describe your biggest, unique summer sale is by ostensibly misusing a word?

That's just sad, you know. It's sad, because words are here for us to play with...and okay, I'll give you this - if you *actually* have Achilleus at your sale, I will retract my snottiness. If there are goblins and halflings and orcs (oh my!) at your sale, I will apologise. If your sale is actually a play in which everyone knows it is a play, good on you. But if all that happens is I walk into your shop and see a couple of "25% off! Today only!" stickers on a couch or rack of clothes, sister, really. Epic it ain't.

Labels: piss in your eye

Here's a suggestion for all you folks thinking about doing some advertising. It's certainly not something that's restricted to radio adverts, but this is where I last encountered it.

I went to a thingummy one time with my friend Smarty Pants, who, as the name might suggest, is Pretty Smart. Anyway, this thingummy was a presentation-a-magooey from this fellow called Roy Williams. He's the Wizard of words Ads. So The Wizard was talking about things that work in advertising and marketing, and things that Do Not. He talked about neurology; he talked about psycholinguistics. He talked a lot of stuff. And most of it was stuff that you already know, but probably just haven't thought about.

I work in promotion and marketing, to a certain extent. I've done ads for print and radio and television. I'm a freaking STAR, people. A STAR. In fact, I'm so bloody famous, I need to hire a Sherpa to haul around my various accoutrements, and a bodyguard to make sure none of the bolsheviks accost me.

I digress.

Here is something that Never Works in advertising. Never. The Wizard mentioned it, and I didn't really think much of it, because I couldn't imagine anyone actually doing it. But you know what? You're doing it. And it's Bad. It's Really Bad.

This is it, are you ready? Here it is:
I don't care if God Himself works for you, or if Jesus and Muhammed are your sales team. It doesn't matter if Cyndi Lauper is your receptionist, or if my boyfriend Johnny Depp works in accounting. Mahatma Ghandi could be your stock boy, but you know what? (Take note here, because this is the important thing) I DO NOT PURCHASE PEOPLE AT YOUR STORE.

I shop at your store because of your *merchandise*. I shop there because I need/want your crap. Good service is a bonus, but it's not the reason I choose your shop over that other guy's shop.

Granted, if I walk in the door of your shop, and someone hits me in the face with a pool cue, there's a good chance I won't shop there again.

But I don't really care if the girl working the til would rather be shagging her lover *anywhere else but here*. I don't particularly care if the waiter is a jerk. I mean, if he slapped his wang down on the table and said "here's your sausuage!"...okay, if he did that, I'd leave a HUGE tip...but generally, I don't give a waiter's wang about service. If it's terrible service in a restaurant, I don't tip. If I have to wait twenty minutes at the til, I generally ask someone (politely) if they're available to help me.

Now, if I was in the market for purchasing "reliable, friendly people", I might shop at your place of business. But really, I am not. In the market. For purchasing people. We don't ...actually...do that...anymore...in Canada.

In fact, when I hear an advert about how the best thing about a company is its employees or its people, I make a mental note NEVER TO SHOP THERE. Know why? Because if you can't think of something awesome to say about your products, why the hell would I want to buy them?

"Never mind the air seeder, let me introduce you to Pam!"

Listen. Advertising isn't inexpensive. Don't make it cheap. You pay people who know what they're doing (you clearly do not) to promote and market your stuff. I guarantee you dollars to doughnuts if a Creative Writer were to toss something like "Shop at Bob's Big Organs because they have Great People" past a market focus group, the market focus group would all twist up their eyebrows in Consternation and say: "well, so what? I have great people at home, too, but they can't sell me a Wurlitzer."

So. Again. I do not purchase people. I purchase commodities. Sometimes service is a commodity, and that should be part of your *everyday business*. If you have to advertise that your staff are the nicest, most capable people in the industry, I immediately think there's something wrong with your products.

Labels: piss in your eye

Seriously. We took a taxi downtown yesterday, and you wouldn't *believe* how intense this guy was. He was all cutting people off and then yelling at them out the window when they wouldn't let him back into the lane he'd just cut them off from getting in to...he just about hit a pedestrian...there was no smooth, elegant ride downtown - he took it rather personally that a bunch of the roads were closed for a marathon.

In fact, he took that *very* personally. Every five minutes or so, he'd tell us that "all the roads are closed. All of them. Everything downtown is closed. Everything." while driving on a road that was clearly not closed.

Add to the milieu the fact that he had this seashell (a la "Fahrenheit 451") in his ear that he was chattering to the whole time. Do you know what he was chattering about? He was talking about how all the roads were closed and he couldn't get anywhere because it was "bumpertobumper".

It was all terribly silly, and we didn't die, but we also didn't get to take a bus tour because, you guessed it, all the streets were closed.

Normally, I am not Nervous in taxis. Last night, I was clutching the Jesus Christ handles and composing a letter to my children, to be written from a vegetative state. I was choosing short, easy words I could write with my mouth if need be.

Labels: piss in your eye, when there's weather

Sometimes when they (you do so too know who they are. They are all those people who get paid eff-you money to write seventeen-word 'blurbs' on the back covers of books) say "an instant laugh-out-loud classic" and "joyful and jubilant", what they really mean is "terribly, heart-rendingly sad" or "the kind of book that you should not read alone in a house because it's the sort of book that makes you need your family and friends, unless you're an agoraphobic. If you're agoraphobic, you might want to read this book because it will make you realise how sad, small, and alone we all are as individuals, and it will make you leave your apartment/condo/house/hovel/shed/cave/quonset clutching your safety blanket/favourite dildo/genitals/little mouse friend you found inside a combine, and wearing a sheet/pillowcase/balaclava/toque/jacket/bucket over your head so that you don't have to see the outside world, just so that you can go and be with people. Other people just like you. Okay, well not everyone travels around with a bucket on their head, clutching a dead mouse and hiding in quonsets. But you get my drift.

I think it's unfair that they have a secret code. Particularly since that secret code is pretty much completely contrary to common sense. Someone who didn't know that they had a secret code would pick up that book, and they'd read the back, and they'd say, "Oh! An instant laugh-out-loud classic! That's just what I need to take my mind off the termite infestation we have that's going to make us lose our house!" Or they might say "A jubilant, joyful romp! What a great way to get over the tragic loss of my life-partner in a horrible inflatible tube accident!" And do you know what would happen? They'd read the book, and they'd be sitting in their tub, and they'd say "What the poop? This isn't a "joyful romp" at all! In fact, it's kind of a bit of a melancholic trudge!" or "For the love of the Great Worm Spirit, I didn't laugh out loud once!"

And then something terrible would happen. They'd have to go back to junior high school, or wear blue eyeshadow or something. Something really really terrible like that would happen and then they'd be all, "oh, you know what, book blurb writers? Go jump in a puddle."

Labels: Books, piss in your eye

You may remember Yours Truly being upset over censorship in Canada. Maybe once or twice, you know. Well, it seems the Tories are censoring people they don't want Canadians to hear from. Dangerous people. Treasonous bastards who talk about things like (and I should issue a warning here that what follows is seditious and quite possibly Extremely Insulting) the withdrawal of forces from Iran, Aid to Palestinians under fire in the Gaza Strip, and his general opposition to the war in Afghanistan.

British Member of Parliament George Galloway has been denied entry in to Canada because our Immigration Minister, a strong supporter of the war in Afghanistan and a staunch right-winger, feels Galloway's presence here would be "detrimental to national interest". He was schedule to speak at an anti-war rally in Toronto.

Immigration officials cite a section of Canada's Immigration Legislation for the reason Galloway is being denied entry.

What is the Harper government so frightened of? They allowed George Bush into the country so he could accept a paid speaking engagement, but because Galloway opposes the Afghan war, he's a threat to national interest?

I don't care *what* the guy is going to say. I don't even know what *my* opinion is on the Afghan war most of the time, other than being stricken with a deep, deep sadness that people still think it's okay to kill each other, regardless of whose God told them to do what. It's profoundly enmiserating to think that we still don't understand that we are all the same, and that hurting one another is *always* wrong. I suspect I will be ensaddened by that for the rest of my life, though.

But seriously. Here's what gets me: Galloway isn't a terrorist. He doesn't kill people. He doesn't blow up blocks of children with car bombs. He hasn't raped your wife and/or children (and most likely won't). He's not claiming that his God tells him to destroy your house, your livelihood, and your family. For Christ's sake, he does *really dangerous things* like participate in aid.

So you must ask yourself: what *are* the Tories afraid of? What is it that George Galloway, a Scottish MP in England, is going to say that Stephen Harper doesn't want you to hear? What part of "the interests of our country" is he a threat to?

You think he might talk about what a bad thing the Afghani war is? Because I'm *fairly* certain there are a whole bunch of Canadians who also feel the same way. You think he might spread a message (a horrible, treasonous message) promoting peace? There are no Canadians working for peace.

But the deeper concern, the real concern is this: If the Immigration Minister under Stephen Harper is allowed to unilaterally deny entry into our country of people with whose opinions he does not agree, you'd better watch what you say when you're vacationing in Jamaica. Or Mexico. And how long is it going to be before you have to really start watching what you say when you're out for lunch? Or in your own house? Or on your own blog?

Normally, I wouldn't give a rat's fart what George Galloway says or doesn't say. I don't actually particularly care what his opinions are. What I DO care about is this fascist denial of free speech. What I DO care about is that this nimrod, Jason Kenney is trying to silence someone and is hiding behind legislation that doesn't fit the situation to do so.

I should say, I don't know Jason Kenney. I think he's an arrogant, small-minded prick (he declined to renew a government programme that provided English/French language instruction to immigrants because the grant/programme was allocated to the Candadian Arab Federation, and as we all know, all those swarthy towel-heads are in league with one another to blow up 21 Sussex Drive in the name of Allah. EVERY SINGLE ARAB in Canada is a terrorist and wants to kill pink-skinned Christians and Jews. You know how I know this? Because when I was in daycare, I had a teacher who wore an Hajib, and all she *ever* talked about was killing Westerners in the name of Allah). He's also advocating scrapping a government contract which assists new immigrants with employment in their new country. And you know, really, I support this, because if immigrants can't find their own damned jobs and at the very least learn to SPEAKY THE LANGUAGE, they don't deserve to live here.

I also don't know George Galloway. I can say that after I read what the Toronto Star had to say about the whole thing, it was abundantly clear that I would invite Galloway to my house for tea, and would grunt in disgust if Kenney showed up.

Smarten up, Canada. The only thing you do when you censor speech and ideas is make people all the more interested in them. What could Galloway *possibly* do or say that 'threatens the security of Canada'? Recommend that Canadian-owned companies buy back Tim Hortons from the Yanks? Advocate for funding education and employment programs for new Canadians? Tell a bunch of people who *already think like him and agree with him* that the war in Afghanistan is wrong?

You know what?

Whether I agree with Galloway's position or not isn't important (and I won't get in to it here, because it's not the main issue). I'm going to sign the petition to allow him in to the country. I'm also going to write a letter to Jason Kenney and tell him how ridiculous he is. I'm also going to write to my MP and I'm going to ask him why his party, the minority government of Canada, is in favour of censorship and why they didn't run on this platform in the last election. I'd also like to suggest they do so in the next election, because that will make my decision on who to vote for (or who to vote 'against') much, MUCH more clear.

Labels: Canadian politics, censorship, piss in your eye

To the Retard who posted on one of my posts in the archives:

Scientists in Canada have confirmed the hypothesis that the less you choose to use any grey matter that might have survived your alcoholic, drug-addled childhood, the stupider you get.

Also: if you believe everything you read, particularly things on the Information Superhighway, as the kids are calling it these days, you deserve whatever ills befall you.

Labels: piss in your eye, Snottiness

In honouring the worst day of the goddamned year, let me just say that this coming Saturday pisses me off simply because it exists.

If you can't tell people how much they matter to you *every single day*, you don't deserve to have friends.

Stick *that* in your craw and choke on it.

Labels: piss in your eye

I was talking about this with my friend Road Rage this weekend, and I can't seem to get it out of my head. Apparently, professors at many Universities are being asked by their students to adjust students' marks based on, it seems, *anything but* merit.

Which is to say, there are people out there asking, "If I do most of the readings for this class, will you give me a B?" and "I tried really hard; shouldn't that account for something?"

I won't even begin to tell you how ludicrous this is. Okay, that's a complete lie. This is more than ludicrous. I couldn't imagine asking any of my profs whether they'd be willing to hedge my marks a little because I smiled sweetly and asked nicely and 'tried real hard'. Because, really, it doesn't matter how hard you try. What matters is how well you understand the material, and, more importantly, how well you can explain what you've learned. University is just another form of training. In elementary school, you're trained to to basic math (in many places. I wasn't at the school that taught math), you're trained to have a basic understanding of the written word, and sometimes, if you're not sick for a week, you learn about cloud formations and things like condensation and what happens when you mix baking soda and vinegar.

In high school, you're trained to pine after Blaine Duncan.

And in University, you're trained to think critically or you're trained to hone your mathematics abilities and your skill with research. You're taught, basically, different ways of thinking and different ways of learning. Which leads to different ways of looking at the world. If you can't muster a B in University, you're either doing it wrong or you just don't have the ability. And there's nothing shameful in not having the ability (and if you're doing it wrong, you can correct it). Not everyone is cut out for "higher learning". And the truth is, many people just don't like it.

But if you're not cut out for it, or if you aren't able to do it, why the hell should you be coddled along and encouraged?

Let's be honest, here. University isn't about training you for Real Life. Whoever argues that hasn't spent a lot of time at University for a very, very long time. So if anyone's arguing that the reason you shouldn't be asking your profs to adjust your mark based on gumption, they don't get it either. You shouldn't be asking your profts to adjust your mark based on gumption because *effort doesn't matter* in the long run. University isn't about trying hard. It's about learning. It's the Yoda thing, right? "Do or do not; there is no try." That should be the motto for every University on the planet.

And another thing. Whoever thought it'd be a good idea to stop failing kids in elementary and high school ought to be stood in front of a line of thirty illiterate, innumerate teenagers whose biggest ambition in life is to not get pregnant, and that person should be forced to teach those kids basic math, basic reading, and basic LIFE SKILLS.

There's this movement afoot that no child should be allowed to 'fail' a grade in school. If they can't do the work, they simply get moved forward because some pointy-headed child psychologist figured it does more damage to a kid to be 'left out of his peer group' than it does to ensure the kid has a BASIC UNDERSTANDING OF HOW THE WORLD WORKS. I'm not kidding, either. At least around here, I know people whose kids literally cannot read, and the kids are simply moved up to the next grade to tackle higher concepts and more difficult passages before they've even mastered the previous level. And now, apparently, in Saskatoon, there is a school that is at least discussing the idea of removing 'failing grades' from the high school. This would effectively replace the "45" you get in arithmetic in grade nine with "tried real hard" or "no mark". So, what, when you reach grade 12, instead of getting a diploma, you get a blank piece of paper and are asked to clean out your locker with the other mooks?

The whole idea of achieving excellence by lowering your standards really casts a serious pall on this province.

But you know what? I say sure, go ahead. Let those kids who can't read pass grade two. Take away failing grades. Raise your kids to feel entitled to succeed simply because they were born. Go ahead! But don't come whining around here when they smash the windows in your car and ask for a minimum sentence because they 'tried real hard' on probation. And don't you dare complain that they're still living at home when they're 35 years old, with no job and no ambition and no goals. And ultimately, just think about this: these illiterate, spoiled kids who figure the world owes them the high life on a platter are going to be deciding mill rates and taxation systems in another 30 years. They're going to be in charge of your retirement funds. And if you really want a bunch of folks who figure they should get special treatment because they had a tough time in high school running the country the way they're running their own lives, you go ahead and put all your support behind lowering educational standards down past the point where they have any meaning.

I'm waiting on tenterhooks for the day when my kids come running home in June shouting "Mama! They've removed all standards from my classroom, so now I get to be just as smart as the stupid kids!"

Labels: education, Lowering standards, piss in your eye