What I don’t understand about the college admissions bribery scandal is why these people waited so long to take action.
It would have made much more sense if Mr. and Mrs. Gotbucks recognized the urgency of the situation the first time they saw their little Boopsie sitting in the cow pasture saying, “Hmmmm, if Shinola is shoe polish, what’s this other stuff?”
I know if my parents had known they could buy me better test scores they would have started with my kindergarten teacher, Miss Ewell, by saying, “Forget buying a vowel, we need the whole alphabet.”
It seems to me that the more cost-efficient way of greasing the educational skids would be to make installment payments K-through 12. That way the Gotbucks family wouldn’t have to fork over a bundle all at once to have Coach Lugnut register Boopsie as a varsity ring-toss recruit, when she doesn’t know ring-toss from ring worm.
I’m sure my first grade teacher, Miss Morgan, would have appreciated my parents’ assistance, given that teachers in those days were paid with fresh eggs and produce.
“So, Miss Morgan, we see on our son’s report card that he scored poorly in the class rhythmic skipping exercise. What can we do?”
The next thing you know, Miss Morgan’s cracking open a free pack of Lucky Strikes and swigging champagne in the teacher’s lounge at lunch and, according to my report card, I’m doing the cha-cha like Fred Astaire in the musical skipping department.
Not that scoring highly as a masterful skipper would have helped me on my SATs 11 years later, when I posted a 0006 or something, or just enough to get me into the remedial manure-spreading program at Farmer Bob’s Institute for the Hopelessly Disengaged.
But, if they had started with bribing Miss Morgan with smokes and bubbly and worked their way up through the grades to floral print car mats for senior English, they would have paved my way to higher scores without having to write five- or six-figure checks to get me accepted into Yale, not that it would have worked out anyway.
That’s the other thing that puzzles me — if high school Boopsie is still out in the pasture saying, “If this is Shinola, then this must be … ewwwwww,” how in the world is she going to stay in Yale once she gets there?” Further, even if she does make it through, what difference will that make when she will still be dumber than the butt-end of a two-by-four?
“Mom, Dad, I’m thinking of neurosurgery. Buy me a hospital.”
This just in from John Jarvis at Atlantic Aquatech: A guy is fishing on the rocks at the inlet early in the morning, when he slips, cracks his head, loses consciouness and rolls into the water.
Bystanders pull him out and rush him to the emergency room, where he opens his eyes and sees a doctor, who says, “You’re going to be fine, but tell me, what day is it?
The guy looks at the doctor a minute and then asks, how’s the weather?
The doctor replies, “It will be raining for the next three days.”
“Okay,” the guy says, “Then this must be Friday.”