How to Prepare For the SATs

Like many of my peers, I had aspirations of greatness when applying my various and multi-facteted talents towards my academic career. I figured I was a shoo-in for the Ivy League or some other noteworthy branch of the hallowed halls of academia, but alas, it was not to be. Oh, sure, there were lots of accusations and recriminations when the shit hit the fan back in the day; all kinds of high-falutin’ catchphrases were bandied about to describe my situation like “not motivated”, “stupid” and “legally insane”. I took this all in stride, however; what really irked me was the emphasis so many colleges placed on standardized tests like the SAT, the ACT, and the LAPD. I’ve been a mortal enemy of those kinds of tests since I single-handedly began pulling down the curve on the Presidential Physical Fitness Badge trials back in elementary school (dammit, those things were HARD!) Keeping this in mind, I now present to you a list of “shortcuts” that will allow you, the average standard American obese underachiever (or ASAOU for the acronym happy), to “cash in” with the standardized test racket and help to bring the entire putrid system crashing down on it’s well-deserved knees.

Section 1: Multiple-choice exams

Many people erroneously assume that using a simple, repetitive pattern of guessing (such as selecting all “C”s) on a multiple-choice exam will give them at least a decent chance of passing. Sadly, this is not true (as evidenced by my miguided Genesis tribute in 1982 when I repeatedly used an “Abacab” pattern on an AP Physics final). In truth, test developers will go out of their way to avoid simplistic patterns, often avoiding the letters “A-E” entirely and making the correct response a glyph from the Navajo alphabet.

In truth, what we at OLPM have found is that the most accurate patern one can follow is to replicate the chord sequnces of the light operettas (NOT the symphonies) of the semi-obscure 17th century Italian composer Fiogesco Beppialoni (1586-1644), transposing all chords between E and G up three whole steps, and treating minors and diminished/augmented chords as if they belonged to their respective root keys. This simple method has shown that, instead of a mere 20% correct that random guessing would return, the user can achive and sometimes surpass a whole 23% of the correct answers! Of course, there are some out there that suggest that the polite dinner music of Francionesco Trentalooni (1788-1845) would be an even worthier template, but those people are heretics and should be forced to watch consecutive reruns of “F Troop” until their eyeballs bleed.

However, should the reader find themselves in the rare situation that the Beppialoni method does not seem to be working, we recommend that you select ALL of the possible choices and hand in your paper. Then go stand quietly in the corner and cover yourself with goat feces, staring at the test administrator and growling a low, menacing sound from the back of your throat. Do not break eye contact or show fear; you must show yourself to be the dominant predator.

Section 2: Essay questions

Essay questions involve actual cognitive thought, and thus are much harder for the average American to comprehend, let alone excell at. Hope is not lost, however, as we have developed several shortcuts that will allow rodents, bacteria and even NASCAR fans to propser.

Our first recommendation is to lie. Lie like a rug. Lie, lie, lie. Nothing goes as far in this world as a good hunk o’bullshit. For examples, here a few questions and their responses from “A” papers:

Q: What is the central theme of Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby”?

A: That a great Gatsby is much better than a good Gatsby or even a small Gatsby (also known as a “gadfly”). Gatsbies have now been around for almost seven centuries, or 70 years in layman’s terms, and they’re not getting any smaller. Many people use Gatsbies both inside and outside, though with the latter it’s hard to keep the chrome clean.

Q: What does the designation H2O stand for?

A: H2O, or “hooto” as it is known in the aviation industry, was the world’s first jet-propelled beer bong. Able to withstand the combined forces of Delta Tau Rho, it can achieve speeds of Mach 37 before busting open and coating the stratosphere with a fine layer of sweet, sweet beer. Go Cubs!

Another reccommended way of approaching the essay question is to engage the tester (plural form: testes) directly. Flattery and various forms of coercion are used, as illustrated by these sample questions:

Q: When an aqeuous solution of HCL and NAO2 are combined, what is the color of the resulting hydrate?

A: A deep, passionate blue, like the color of your beautiful, clear eyes. How I could lose myself in those pools of passion…


Q: If a solid cubic balsite slab with a thickness of 1m and a weight of 50 kg were dropped from an altitude of 1 km, what would be the top speed achieved by the object, and what be the force of impact when it hit the ground?

A: You know what? Good question. Let’s go outside and find out using your car as a testing ground. Unless, of course, you’re done asking stupid questions; I would hate to have to get my Sicilian cousins to come down and help us with our little physics experiment, if you catch my drift…

Q: What is the standard nuerochemical response to l-cordamine?

A: I’m sorry, but I’m having trouble writing the answer to this question, as my incredibly large phallus keeps flopping on the desk and knocking my pencil onto the ground. Could you come over here and help me get a handle on my “no. 2 pencil”?

Along these lines, also try rubbing your hindquarters against the tester’s desk and moaning softly. Wearing black leather bondage gear may also be a plus in this situation.

If none of these are to you liking, our final tried-and-true technique used to raise test scores is much simpler: stapling US currency to any test papers which need a little help. The following list will give the reader a better idea of how much money to bring with them to the testing center:

If you can’t answer this question…attach this bill:

1. Define the 2nd law of Thermodynamics: $20
2. Apply the 2nd law of Thermodynamics to specific subatomic particles: $50
3. Spell “Thermodynamics”: $5
4. Spell “law”: $1
5. Explain the nature of God: $100
6. Explain the nature of woman: more than you can afford
7. Name 3 pre-American European empires: $10
8. Name the 17th century rulers of 3 pre-American European empires: $20
9. Write your name here: $2

Hopefully this humble little guide has given you, the student, an edge in the always competitive testing world. Our thanks to you; you may now return to your porno sites.

Vormathmania!

Our correspondent in the bush Scott Sookman sends us some complimentary (uh, I think...) press:

HOT OFF THE WIRE SERVICES!!!!!! EXTRA!!!!!

Vormath Mania Continues Unabated!
by Squodge Piddleton
Special to the Cleveland Lemming

World society was again thrust into a void of uncertainty whilst awaiting the
latest installment of the blockbuster pop culture phenomenon, John K.
Vormath's Fist of Revenge. Government officials that could be reached for
comment reported that society was continuing to break down in the face of
psychosis-inducing anticipation. Worldwide power outages continued to
mushroom as maintenance workers refused to coax decaying power distribution
facilities back on line in protest of the ongoing Vormathlessness. Spotty
food shortages were becoming more and more widespread as delivery channels
broke down in the face of developing dysfunction by food preperation workers.
Every McDonald's in the state of Utah was padlocked by the local franchise
owners, some stating that the continuing lack of Vormathosity was a sign of
the oncoming Rapture. Fervent followers of the LDS church were advised to
begin selling their belongings and prepare transportation to heaven as "life
here on Earth is apparently grinding to a halt and imploding in on itself,"
according to Miles Togo, a survivalist living in the southern Utah town of
Shmpelmge.

Hospitals across the world, especially psychiatric facilities, are being
pushed to the limit the face of constant removal of Vormathitude. Supplies of
psychoactive drugs throughout the civilized world have reportedly been
exhausted. The streets of major cities are crowded with drooling, babbling
loons, and apparently no one is left to stop it. Only the illiterate are
safe, as they have never been able to catch on to the sheer literary sturm und
drang that is Vormath at its best. The phenomenon has reached worldwide
penetration in six short months, as the work has been translated into all
spoken languages of the Earth, even ones with no living speakers and those
which have never had a written alphabet. Even the blind are not immune, as
the braille version of Vormath has been, like its printed counterpart, the
best selling printed work in the history of Earth, outselling the Bible within
two months. Currently there are two copies printed for each man, woman and
child on Earth, but it has not been enough to satisfy the endless of lust of
Vormath freaks.

The only official of the U.S. government available for comment was Hon Lo Han,
a file cleark in the records section of the Department of Housing and Urban
Development, who was found cringing in the sub-basement in a locked, unlit,
waterlogged file room. When asked if he thought society was doomed, Mr. Han,
a recent immigrant from Laos, held up a cross, screamed in terror and fled for
parts unknown carrying a torch.

Literature experts were mixed on the meaning of the prolonged silence from the
creator of the Vormath phenomenon, a shadowy figure known only as "A.M.,"
rumored to be a reclusive billionaire who made his fortune by trademarking the
phrase "Lather, rinse, repeat," now used on all shampoo bottles on the planet.
Others have asserted that "A.M." is alternately, a master of Zen Buddism and
stir-fry cooking, a Yeti, a Scientolgy Operating Thetan Level 99 (the only one
other than L. Ron Hubbard), or in a fact a self-evolved supercomputer,
originally assembled by a cabal of BIll Gates, Freemasons and militant
vegetarians in a fiendish plot to win the Publishers' Clearinghouse
Sweepstakes.

The only expert on literature we were able to find was Alvin "Teats"
Cadwallader, a newstand operator and Vietnam veteran in Philadelphia, which,
alone in the major cities of the world, seems untouched by mass lunacy. "It's
all Monty Hall," stated Mister Cadwallader. "He's behind it all. Ever since
they fluordated our drinking water, it's been a battle between the plumbers
and the Mah Jongg players. Hall was pissed when he got fired from Let's Make
A Deal, and he used his invisible dog army to control the minds of his
unwitting dupes. Chocodile?"

Refusing Mister Cadwallader's offer of mass-produced baked goods, we moved on
to a typical Vormath acolyte, who would identify himself only as "Ernie."
When asked about why he foamed at the mouth so intensely for the charms of the
action-packed saga, he would only shout "You have Vormath? Where Vormath!
Want Vormath! Want Vormath!" while repeatedly slamming his skull into a metal
light pole and bleeding on to the sidewalk. After slumping to the pavement in
a heap, "Ernie" was not able to provide us with any further insight.

"It's the damndest thing I've ever seen," reported Philadelphia police
sergeant Sergeant "Sarge" Sargent. "Lucky I'm illiterate, or I'd be screwed
up by this thing to. Makes you think, I think. I feel damn lucky to be
illiterate. Maybe the illiterate are gonna take over the world." For all of
our sakes, we can only hope, Sarge, we can only hope.

A Quickie: Things I Call Other Drivers on the Road

Motherfucker
Godammed Motherfucker
One-eyed Heathen She-Bitch
Masturbatory Shit Weasel
Masturbatory Shit Weasel Motherfucker
SUV Encrusted Death-Whore
Flatulent old BMW Nazi
Decomposing Rust-fucker
Pimple-Assed Hydraulic Eyesore
Fucky fuck FUCK!!
Stupid-ass Motherfucker Who Needs to Get the FUCK Out of My Lane Before I Run His Dinky Little Honda Ass Over With My Fucking Car Because He Won’t FUCKING Go Over 30
MicroPope!

Howzabout Some More Pancakes?

The list of blogs to plug just gets longer and longer! Our good friend Scott Hewitt now has one at:

American Waste

Andrew Milner has more cool stuff and is still at:

Giraffes on Horseback Salad

Scott Sookman is still hanging around in:

Virtual Comedy Club

And good ol’ Bill Spring has just posted new material and is still knockin’ ‘em dead at:

Viking Funeral

Check ‘em out! I need for them to pretend to like me a little bit longer. And now, the "long-awaited" second installment of the John K. Vormath saga...

John K. Vormath’s Fist of Revenge: A Twisted Trail of Gouda

Cheswick gritted his teeth and hissed invective as Charlie applied the cold compresses to his right leg. Her eyes darted up and met Cheswick’s; “You’re just lucky you didn’t get the damn thing shot off completely,” she said in reply to his unspoken complaint. “As it is, there are fragments of Gouda still embedded in the muscle; don’t think you’ll be pulling daredevil moves like that again any time soon.”
Cheswick glumly regarded his throbbing leg. He knew she was right. That still didn’t make it any easier to endure the discomfort…He sighed to himself as she gave him a shot of nueroplexamine to numb the pain. If only it were that easy to quiet the sound of the gears grinding in his head…
Suddenly a loud crash came from the lab down the hall. Charlie and Cheswick’s heads whirled as one in the direction of the noise, as they both instinctively jumped towards the door. Cheswick hit the ground and immediately screamed in agony as daggers of pain shot up his bad leg. Charlie’s arm shot out and she caught him as he stumbled into her. “Wait until it takes effect before you start doing the stong and silent bit again, chief,” she cautioned him. Cheswick said nothing but nodded briefly as she leaned him against the hard formica of the medical room countertop. He gave a curt nod in the direction of the lab; she nodded back in understanding and dashed out of the room as he began to massage his injured extremity.
Darkly he looked around for an extra dose of nuero-p; if that crash was any indication, Dr. Vector was having a little problem with his pet project and would need all the help he could in a few seconds. Cheswick found a vial at the other end of the counter and lunged for it. Grabbing it and attaching it to a fresh syringe, he jammed the needle into his leg and shot the contents deep into the muscle before his pain receptors could stop him. In a matter of seconds, the agonizing pain mellowed into a dull throb and a feeling of euphoria; Cheswick knew he better get going while the high lasted. He wasn’t looking forward to the aftereffects, but that was for later. He trotted out of the room and plunged down the dimly lit hallway that led to the lab.
Even before he burst into the lab, Cheswick knew trouble was brewing. The smell of burnt crayons filled the air, never a good sign, and he could hear Doc Vector’s muffled cries before he was even halfway down the hall. Sprinting as fast as he could, he ran into the lab, ready for anything. Chaos held sway there, and she was an ungainly beast. Upended containers of an assortment of chemicals gave the air an acrid stench; rivulets of multicolored liquid poured past Cheswick’s feet. Charlie and Doc Vector both lay unconcious on the far side of the room, as if playthings cast aside by a sullen child. In in the center of it all, the cause. Cheswick whispered the word to himself: “Bureaubot!”
Ten feet tall with a quartet of waving metallic tentacles, the Bureaubot’s rectangular eyes flashed cold blue fire. A grating computerized voice blared out from it’s mouth speaker: “Fffffffffffillllllllle Yyyyyyyrrrrrrrrrrrrr Txxxxxxxxxxxxxxxezzzzzzzz!!” It hadn’t noticed Cheswick. Yet. But he knew it was only a matter of time. “Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate PennnnnnalTEEEEEEEEEEZ!!” came crackling from it’s voicebox.
“Jesus hopping Frankenstein!…” exclaimed Cheswick, flushing with upset. He knew he had to act fast. His eyes darted around the room, desperately looking for something to assail the flailing automaton with; he could see nothing useful in the heaps of shattered glass and crushed measuring instruments. Already in a state of advanced grit, Cheswick ratcheted his teeth up to their maximum state of grittosity and lunged headfirst into the ‘bots field of vision. He knew he would have to draw attention away from the prone figures of his comrades and hopefully find a weapon on the other side of the room.
It wasn’t long before the ‘bot caught him on it’s sensor array. It whirled on it’s central axis and began using it’s powerful hydraulic spider-like legs to propel itself towards Cheswick. “Yuuuu havvvve not compleeeeeted Form five-oh-foooooouuuuur A: request toooo enteeeerrrr restricteeeed areeaaa!!” It was fast. Cheswick barely manged to avoid one of the massive tentacles and dove behind a lab desk. This seemed to stump the ‘bot; it stopped dead in it’s tracks and began to scan the area, looking for his escaped prey.
Cheswick breathed a sigh of relief. This must be a model 17s-345-Rtew78: crushingly powerful, but dumber than an electrified post. It couldn’t go outside of it’s programming without sending several thousand requests to headquarters and waiting for the appropriate replies. Unfortunately, unlike for it’s human counterparts, that would only take about 45 seconds. He knew he only had moments to act; that infernal paper-pusher of death would soon be all over him like a Gallic mouse on a wheel of Brie.
He looked around for something, anything, that would get him out of this mess. He cast his eyes around frantically; nothing but broken glass & metal and oily fluids as far as he could see. He knew then what he had to do. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was his only hope.
He began twisting his bruised leg as hard as he could. Even with the nuero-P coursing through his system, the pain began to build up to staggering levels. Still, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t stop twisting. Finally, he began to hear popping as the muscles and veins of his leg began to detach themselves from his hip. More straining, more twisting, and the leg began to free itself and turn slowly. Soon all that was connected was the metallic “bone”, and Cheswick finally detached that with a final Pop! from it’s socket. The pain was immense, but Cheswick picked up the free-floating limb by the ankle and hopped up on his good leg. The ‘bot, still scanning, hadn’t noticed him yet.
“Hey, Sunshine!” Cheswick yelled, “need a leg up?” He then brought the dismembered appendage of fury down upon the ‘bot’s head with all of his might. Sparks flew and a hideous “squawk!!” leapt from the ‘bots speaker cone. “Viooooolashun!!” It moaned. “Steppp over to windoooow 7B and complete Foooorm 12C-JK-k-kkkkkkkkkk!!” Cheswick smashed the creature again. And again. More sparks; shards of metal and plastic fell to the ground. And Cheswick struck again. Again. And, finally, again. The ‘bot sputtered and finally stopped. It was over.
Panting and exhausted, Cheswick dropped his spent limb and started hopping over to Charlie and Vector, supporting himself on the lab desk. The room swam before him as he painfully hobbled inch by inch. Finally, he could stand no longer; everything whirled away into a vortex of black as he succumbed to the warm touch of unconciousness…

…and awoke again in the sickbay. He was on the couch; the light hurt his eyes as they slowly adjusted to his surroundings. When they finally did he saw Charlie and Doc Vector hovering over him. His leg was still gone.
Charlie spoke first, responding to his unspoken question. “We saved the bone. You’re lucky it didn’t get bent out of shape.”
“You’re welcome.” Cheswick growled, lifting his torso up.
Charlie chose to ignore him. “The new leg should be grown within a day or two. Until then…” she shoved him back down. “…you’re not going anywhere.”
Cheswick sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He needed a good, stiff pineapple juice in the worst way: warm and in a dirty glass. He decided to change the subject and spare himself some grief. “Doc, how did the ‘bot get here in the first place?”
Vector didn’t even look up from the microscope he was intently staring through. “You need to pay your taxes, Ches. They always find you if you don’t. Look at Chuck Berry, or Smardmo Pillbox, or even Al Capone for that matter.”
Cheswick grunted to himself. He couldn’t even afford to pay the interest on the interest on the interest on his taxes. Still, Vector made a good point. Time to set up camp in a new place where Gov couldn’t find him. Only one thing bothered him about the whole thing, however…”Doc, I don’t mean to spook you or anything, but…”
Vector looked up from the microscope, fear building slowly in his eyes. “No, Cheswick, don’t ask it. For God’s sake…”
But Cheswick had to. He had to. “…isn’t ‘taxes’ an anagram for TEXAS??”
Charlie screamed. A glass fell. The room spun.
And then the night came.