The bell curve

Our teacher officially handed back our quizzes last night. As mentioned in my prior blog, I received the top mark of 11/20 – scoring a stellar 55%. Apparently the class average was 7. SEVEN! That’s 35%, folks. And the people that felt they couldn’t hack it already dropped out, so it’s the diehards that are scoring sevens. Come on! Michael says that they will bell curve – that they have to because otherwise a lot of people will fail. Which brings me to the topic of the bell curve: what a bad idea! I’d advocate sleeping with the teacher before taking a mark that has been subjected to the bell curve. At least when you sleep with the teacher you know that, on some level, you had to work hard at something. But the bell curve essentially says: you’re all a bunch of degenerate sub-humans, however, to ensure that a healthy proportion of you go out – uneducated – into the world, spreading accounting fraud and errors as you go, I will deem the least retarded of you to be A+ students. So what, essentially, is the point of the grade? If this course is bell curved I will likely receive an A or A-. I certainly didn’t perform at that level. I wouldn’t hire me to do anyone’s personal or corporate tax returns. Hell, I’m still trying to come up with witty ways to remember all the convoluted tax acronyms.
Ah, I’ve been down this road before. Pass the shiraz. Which reminds me: I strongly recommend R.H. Phillips’ Shiraz. Yes it’s American, but damnit, it’s good. At least they didn’t name it Freedom Shiraz or something equally hypocritical. Though when I did sign my credit card receipt upon purchasing the wine the clerk said, “so just initial for the wiretap here” to which I said, “pardon?” and then she said, “sorry! Just sign here. Enjoy your trip to Guantanamo Bay. What? I didn’t say anything.” Weirdo. And apparently the homeless guitar playing guy stationed outside the liquor store isn’t allowed to perform Dixie Chicks songs poorly any more, either.
What else, what else… oh, went to the gym yesterday. Saw a fellow there that I had not seen before. Really, really big muscles. He looked like a bunch of walnuts crammed into a tube sock. But who am I? He was probably sitting on the recumbent bike, looking at me thinking, “hey, who’s the cute 13 year old boy?”.
That’s all I’ve got.