Math:
A potential MBA student surviving on a retail salary attempts to save $150 per month by making coffee at home rather than purchasing Starbucks. She purchaed a coffee maker, filters and pound of coffee totaling $40. To make four cups of coffee to keep her awake during a practice GMAT, she poured water to the line marked four in the machine. The directions say to add two tablespoons to every cup of water. How many tablespoons should our student use?
--4 tablespoons
--6 days
--8 tablespoons
--10 days.
This student chose 8. The correct answer is 4, which she learned when she expected four cups of coffee, but only poured one. The other two were Joe Bloggs answers, you idiot.
Verbal:
Our GMAT-taker drank the aforementioned cup of copy, then took the practice GMATs online. The test, which is supposed to last three hours, was completed in 50 minutes.
Which of the following statements can be inferred from the above statement?
A- This student is a genius.
B- This student broke the time-space continuum and actually traveled backwards thru time while taking the test.
C-This student is a jedi, and capable of seeing the answer before the question is asked.
D-This student is not qualified to work at Starbucks.
The correct answer is D, which is too bad, because she is not qualifed to go to grad school either.
Math, again:
If three shots of espresso keeps our student activated for five hours, and our student drank this coffee at 7:00 pm, how long did she stay awake and what did she do to occupy her time?
A-2am, and studied GMAT Verbal again.
B-3am, and attempted to name every product in her store.
C-4am, and attempted to remember the ingredients of every product.
D-10pm, the next day, worked 12 hours, shit her brains (more than once), wrote this blog, plus all of the above.
The correct answer is D.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
True Life: I'm a Seatfiller
Oh, how naive we were! We were two bumpkins bouncing on the back of a turnip truck when we were excited to find the craigslist post asking for Seatfillers for the MTV Movie Awards. "Ooh," Non-Sexual-Life-Partner (NSLP from here on) said, "Maybe I'll have to sit in Justin Timberlake's seat while he accepts an award and when I get up to give him his seat back his hand will graze my boob a little."
We arrived at Universal Studio's King Kong for a noon check in. We were IDed, tagged and agreed to stay for the entire filming of the show, until 8pm. Then lined up with the other Seatfillers. There are two classifications of Seatfillers: Boobs and Unfuckables. I'm sure you can conjure an image of each. Now bake that image at 110 degrees for four hours. As soon as the shadows stretched to make the wait comfortable, they moved us to another holding zone. Like feeder mice hoping our next spot would be more spacious, we pushed and shoved hoping to get picked.
Once inside the theater, we were placed under the jurisdiction of an MTV Lackey fittingly named "Douchebag." Douchebag told us to jam ourselves into the back of staircase until we could "smell the guy next to you's armpit." After four hours in the sun, we could smell each other’s armpits while maintaining a modest personal bubble. Then Douchebag began selecting people to go down and sit in seats that will be visible on camera. Groups of Boobs were extracted while the rest of us tried to convince ourselves it was an honor just to find the craigslist post. Even if we could only watch B-list celebrities walk past, thousands of people would love to be in our position. Thousands of people are idiots.
NSLP and I are not very competitive people unless there is some sort of trivia game involved, so we waited for the crowds to dwindle down to Unfuckables before making our play for Douchebag to select us. But then the Boobs came back, told to get comfortable until their turn was up again, and then immediately sent back to fill Paris Hilton's seat.
If we could just see the show from the holding area, we would have been content. But our view was blocked by Douchebag scanning a field of Unfuckables for any stray Boobs. NSLP turned to me and said "It couldn't be worse then this, let's just try." So we conjured our inner-Boobs, and hopped in line before Douchebag noticed.
Twenty of us were led down the middle aisle, and then told to squat behind a row. After ten minutes of squatting and thanking God that I wore opaque leggings under my short dress, we were told to get back to the seat filler section. "I was wrong before," NSLP whispered.
We strutted back to the holding section, past the Unfuckables to the exit in the back, where a guard was stationed to keep Seatfillers from sneaking to good seats. "But I have to use the bathroom." He allowed us to pass.
We gnawed through our Seatfiller bracelets in the bathroom stalls. Like rats sacrificing a leg to flee a trap, I would have gladly chewed through NSLP sunburned-arm to spare two more hours of comparing ourselves to Boobs.
With false-confidence and the little dignity we had left, we walked out the front door, across the red carpet, through craft-services, a loading zone and security check point. We crossed an invisible barrier between the glossy world of MTV and a theme park (a poor man’s Disney at best). In a seething crowd of fanny packed parents smearing sunscreen on screaming children we were finally Boobs.
We arrived at Universal Studio's King Kong for a noon check in. We were IDed, tagged and agreed to stay for the entire filming of the show, until 8pm. Then lined up with the other Seatfillers. There are two classifications of Seatfillers: Boobs and Unfuckables. I'm sure you can conjure an image of each. Now bake that image at 110 degrees for four hours. As soon as the shadows stretched to make the wait comfortable, they moved us to another holding zone. Like feeder mice hoping our next spot would be more spacious, we pushed and shoved hoping to get picked.
Once inside the theater, we were placed under the jurisdiction of an MTV Lackey fittingly named "Douchebag." Douchebag told us to jam ourselves into the back of staircase until we could "smell the guy next to you's armpit." After four hours in the sun, we could smell each other’s armpits while maintaining a modest personal bubble. Then Douchebag began selecting people to go down and sit in seats that will be visible on camera. Groups of Boobs were extracted while the rest of us tried to convince ourselves it was an honor just to find the craigslist post. Even if we could only watch B-list celebrities walk past, thousands of people would love to be in our position. Thousands of people are idiots.
NSLP and I are not very competitive people unless there is some sort of trivia game involved, so we waited for the crowds to dwindle down to Unfuckables before making our play for Douchebag to select us. But then the Boobs came back, told to get comfortable until their turn was up again, and then immediately sent back to fill Paris Hilton's seat.
If we could just see the show from the holding area, we would have been content. But our view was blocked by Douchebag scanning a field of Unfuckables for any stray Boobs. NSLP turned to me and said "It couldn't be worse then this, let's just try." So we conjured our inner-Boobs, and hopped in line before Douchebag noticed.
Twenty of us were led down the middle aisle, and then told to squat behind a row. After ten minutes of squatting and thanking God that I wore opaque leggings under my short dress, we were told to get back to the seat filler section. "I was wrong before," NSLP whispered.
We strutted back to the holding section, past the Unfuckables to the exit in the back, where a guard was stationed to keep Seatfillers from sneaking to good seats. "But I have to use the bathroom." He allowed us to pass.
We gnawed through our Seatfiller bracelets in the bathroom stalls. Like rats sacrificing a leg to flee a trap, I would have gladly chewed through NSLP sunburned-arm to spare two more hours of comparing ourselves to Boobs.
With false-confidence and the little dignity we had left, we walked out the front door, across the red carpet, through craft-services, a loading zone and security check point. We crossed an invisible barrier between the glossy world of MTV and a theme park (a poor man’s Disney at best). In a seething crowd of fanny packed parents smearing sunscreen on screaming children we were finally Boobs.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Fat Ass-essment
I tried losing weight the easy way with two colon cleanses. First, an eastern practice called "Korean Barbeque." Then I bought pills at the grocery store. The former was much more violent and effective then the latter. Neither showed long term results.
So I joined a gym yesterday. Learning from past experiences when I've worked out for two months, then shook my fist every time I drove past the gym for the next ten months of my contract, I chose a three-month plan. This obviously offended every employee of the 24-Hour Fitness, who stopped by the membership table to tell me I was making the worst decision of my life. I think taking a job that requires mesh shirts is a worse life decision, but I have the decency to keep my opinion to myself-- 'til now.
Today I met with trainer Chelsea for my "complimentary assessment", which is their term for "pinch my fat and make me feel bad." After opening the pincher to the jaws-of-life setting, then squeezing it around my arms, bellybutton and back fat, Chelsea declared that I am 32% fat. I am 56 lbs of fat and 114 lbs of moisturizer and nonsequitor stories. Then she presented me with a graph that a chimpanzee with excel could create and asked me to find myself on the chart. Not only are we assessing my fattiness, but we are testing my vision and counting skills as well.
"I see that 25-years-old and 32 % body fat is 'overweight', bordering on the 'at risk' column." At risk of dying at young and leaving a corpse they can't fit through my front door.
"How does that make you feel?" Chelsea asked. Why is she trying to sell me on the need to workout? I walked into the gym, slapped my debit card on the counter and volunteered to join. This is not an intervention after I asphyxiated on Crispy Creams but couldn't call for help because I was wedged in the ass groove of my couch. I know I need to workout.
"Just as fat as I felt when I decided to join a gym, yesterday." She does not care for me.
"So what's your fitness goal?"
"To look better naked." Obvioiusly, isn't that everyone's goal? That's not what she meant though.
"Can you find where you'd like to be on this chart?" I pointed to the word "healthy" and "20 to 24-years-old."
"Just 'healthy', you don't want to go for 'in shape'? You're going to put in all this work and say "No, I'm not going to take it to the next level. I just want to be healthy."" Here, I thought healthy was a good thing. I had no idea it was considered so revolting and possibly unfuckably fat. But now I'm forced to stand by my statement because I hate 24-Hour Fitness employees and all the uneccessary piecharts they believe in
"I don't know what these numbers look like. Do you have pictures?" She did not. So I chose "24" as my goal. "24" is my birthday and the day my gym membership expires.
Then she questioned why I didn't go to the gym for the last 18 months and how I let myself get this fat as she filled out a form and filed it in my permanent record that a chimp in a mesh shirt will eventually throw away.
So I joined a gym yesterday. Learning from past experiences when I've worked out for two months, then shook my fist every time I drove past the gym for the next ten months of my contract, I chose a three-month plan. This obviously offended every employee of the 24-Hour Fitness, who stopped by the membership table to tell me I was making the worst decision of my life. I think taking a job that requires mesh shirts is a worse life decision, but I have the decency to keep my opinion to myself-- 'til now.
Today I met with trainer Chelsea for my "complimentary assessment", which is their term for "pinch my fat and make me feel bad." After opening the pincher to the jaws-of-life setting, then squeezing it around my arms, bellybutton and back fat, Chelsea declared that I am 32% fat. I am 56 lbs of fat and 114 lbs of moisturizer and nonsequitor stories. Then she presented me with a graph that a chimpanzee with excel could create and asked me to find myself on the chart. Not only are we assessing my fattiness, but we are testing my vision and counting skills as well.
"I see that 25-years-old and 32 % body fat is 'overweight', bordering on the 'at risk' column." At risk of dying at young and leaving a corpse they can't fit through my front door.
"How does that make you feel?" Chelsea asked. Why is she trying to sell me on the need to workout? I walked into the gym, slapped my debit card on the counter and volunteered to join. This is not an intervention after I asphyxiated on Crispy Creams but couldn't call for help because I was wedged in the ass groove of my couch. I know I need to workout.
"Just as fat as I felt when I decided to join a gym, yesterday." She does not care for me.
"So what's your fitness goal?"
"To look better naked." Obvioiusly, isn't that everyone's goal? That's not what she meant though.
"Can you find where you'd like to be on this chart?" I pointed to the word "healthy" and "20 to 24-years-old."
"Just 'healthy', you don't want to go for 'in shape'? You're going to put in all this work and say "No, I'm not going to take it to the next level. I just want to be healthy."" Here, I thought healthy was a good thing. I had no idea it was considered so revolting and possibly unfuckably fat. But now I'm forced to stand by my statement because I hate 24-Hour Fitness employees and all the uneccessary piecharts they believe in
"I don't know what these numbers look like. Do you have pictures?" She did not. So I chose "24" as my goal. "24" is my birthday and the day my gym membership expires.
Then she questioned why I didn't go to the gym for the last 18 months and how I let myself get this fat as she filled out a form and filed it in my permanent record that a chimp in a mesh shirt will eventually throw away.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Dear John Stewart's Balls
Nice to see you, tonight. Usually you let the brains shove you back under the desk before getting too offensive. But not tonight. You punched the brains in the face, leapt over the desk strangled John McCain before he could further defend Bush's troop policy.
I hope The Daily Show's new studio has a reinforced floor to hold your extra weight.
Love and Respect,
Apocalypstick
I hope The Daily Show's new studio has a reinforced floor to hold your extra weight.
Love and Respect,
Apocalypstick
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Dear Bravo TV Executives:
First of all, love your work. Thank you for filling my wednesday night void left by the passing of Jerry Orbach. Specifically, Project Runway was brilliant. I made my own dress inspired by a Santino Tent. I understand that you can't run Runway 52 weeks a year. I appreciate the bone you threw me called Top Chef. It inspired me to carefully place pears on top of spinach to make an avante garde salad. You lost me with Workout. I don't want to work out and no gorgeous lesbian is going to make me.
Then you got greedy or lazy. I don't know if you were determined to keep me tuned in after a season finale or it is your corporate mission to employ every catty gay men that led you to Top Design. Either way, see you later, decorator.
Next up you have Shear Genius about hairdressers. What's the elimanation saying? "You're cut," or "Curl up and dye" or a simple "You blow."
After Shear Genius how will you distract us from the fact that Project Runway is still not back while providing career placement services for gay men? Who Wants to Manage a Retail Store? Top Gigalo? Bottom Gigalo?
Auf Wiedersehen,
Apocalypstick
Then you got greedy or lazy. I don't know if you were determined to keep me tuned in after a season finale or it is your corporate mission to employ every catty gay men that led you to Top Design. Either way, see you later, decorator.
Next up you have Shear Genius about hairdressers. What's the elimanation saying? "You're cut," or "Curl up and dye" or a simple "You blow."
After Shear Genius how will you distract us from the fact that Project Runway is still not back while providing career placement services for gay men? Who Wants to Manage a Retail Store? Top Gigalo? Bottom Gigalo?
Auf Wiedersehen,
Apocalypstick
Get out of myspace
Myspace is a brilliant invention for inventorying and ranking relationships. Changing one's status to "In A Relationship," deserves a small, private ceremony involving witnesses and a Shins song. Likewise, changing one's status back to "Single' is the ultimate act of closure. For that ceremony I recommend vodka, cigarettes and Loretta Lynn.
Sometimes, like four different times this week, myspace is the gossiping bitch in high school who takes joy in watching me squirm. Ultimatley, its just too easy to find out that exes' and crushes' statuses have changed from "In A Relationship" to "Married" or from "I'm not sure if I want kids" to "Proud Parent."
As my status remains firmly on "Single" and "Considering kidnapping if I don't have babies soon," I wonder why some girls change my guys' status when I never could. Myspace lets me research.
Upon surveying the girls who are marrying guys I've liked I have found a few common factors:
1. They don't wear blush.
2. Their photos are oddly cropped, beer-in-hand, posed-candids from house parties.
3. Current Top 40 hits are the best way to express the contents of their souls.
4. None of their friends are funny and don't know the difference between a message (only she can see) and comments (everyone can see).
5. They live in towns I wouldn't stop to pee in.
Is that all it takes to get married? Move somewhere with no decent work, nightlife or fashion.
Oh wait, I already live there. Now I just wait.
Sometimes, like four different times this week, myspace is the gossiping bitch in high school who takes joy in watching me squirm. Ultimatley, its just too easy to find out that exes' and crushes' statuses have changed from "In A Relationship" to "Married" or from "I'm not sure if I want kids" to "Proud Parent."
As my status remains firmly on "Single" and "Considering kidnapping if I don't have babies soon," I wonder why some girls change my guys' status when I never could. Myspace lets me research.
Upon surveying the girls who are marrying guys I've liked I have found a few common factors:
1. They don't wear blush.
2. Their photos are oddly cropped, beer-in-hand, posed-candids from house parties.
3. Current Top 40 hits are the best way to express the contents of their souls.
4. None of their friends are funny and don't know the difference between a message (only she can see) and comments (everyone can see).
5. They live in towns I wouldn't stop to pee in.
Is that all it takes to get married? Move somewhere with no decent work, nightlife or fashion.
Oh wait, I already live there. Now I just wait.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Time Travel
Fall Daylight Savings Time is obviously superior of the two. I don't use it as an hour to catch up on sleep, but instead an hour to do things I wouldn't do in this space-time-continuum like take a bath or wear UGG boots.
But finding the virtue of Spring Daylight Savings Time is a little harder. I am planning on going for a jog and scooping cat shit. Like 2:01 a.m. on March 11, 2007, that's never going to happen.
But finding the virtue of Spring Daylight Savings Time is a little harder. I am planning on going for a jog and scooping cat shit. Like 2:01 a.m. on March 11, 2007, that's never going to happen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)