I spent the better part of my free time over Winter Break cramming algebra so I could do well on the math placement test and take a PBIS course.
I would have had more fun eating yellow snow.
Still, I succeeded in my quest, like Frodo with the ring. Suck on that, world! Just try to school me at my moderate knowledge.
I know that distance equals rate times time, for example. Or the shape a quadratic equation makes on a graph.
So, yes, I’m dangerous. Give me a set of variables and ask me to solve for “x,” and I might just blow your fool mind.
But don’t let your exploding head throw you off the scent of my dedication.
I studied for hours each day, until I felt like Russell Crowe in “A Beautiful Mind”—seeing formulas on the walls, talking to myself, solving random crises as they occurred. I know so much math, I’m insane.
So, I feel like a nerd. All I need is a plastic light saber and some 20-sided die for a Dungeons and Dragons game and I’ll look every bit how I feel.
I already drink so much caffeine that World of Warcraft players approach me at gas stations like I’m one of their own. Let me explain.
Sometimes I’m at the Kwik Mart with an armful of Mountain Dew and Monsters when some freak shambles up, hunched over, arms limp, and asks what level paladin I am or some crap like that.
But what do WoW players do besides kill ogre-like things and menace society from the fringes?
I could handle the online role-playing thing, but I’m not comfortable with taking crystal meth or becoming a serial killer.
I’d part my hair awkwardly and talk about the value of a semicolon to cap this nerd overhaul, but I already do those things.
In fact, my mother just told me my hair makes me look like a gay Julius Caesar. Not sure which party took the brunt of that abuse, but it wasn’t deceased Roman potentates.
You know all those crazy-ass buttons on a calculator? I know what most of them do now.
I can’t tell you how undesirable this makes me to members of the opposite sex.
Perhaps I can put it into an equation for you: “f” equals “e” times “m.” In other words, failure equals eccentricity times math proficiency.
Whereare all the ladies at who fall for math geeks? I’m here, pretty babies, so where you at?
Hey, I’ve watched scads of less-than-studly guys on TV and in the movies get the “hot girl,” and we all know this is possible as long as your first name is Seth. As in Rogen or Green or that dude from “The OC.”
But here in Wisconsin, I just don’t hear about that many math-lovin’ ladies, and if they exist, I’m not so sure I want to meet them.
Oh, I’m sure there are some foxy ladies who say, “Oh baby, you’re so big … your schlong’s got to be the square root of 64 inches,” but they’re as rare as mermaids.
Bloated, pie-faced mermaids who drink Bud Light by the gallon.
The reason I waited this long to take the placement test is, partly, because I applied for school at the last minute and no one ever asked me to take it.
I’d made it that far, and so had UW-Oshkosh, so everything was peachy.
Imagine my delight when I realized I had to test out of the subject people say can change the world but never really does.
Let me lay some practical math on you: Packers fans generally expect their quarterback to throw for 350 yards and three touchdowns every game, and crap on him when he doesn’t.
As a Redskins fan, I’m happy if the sorry bastard doesn’t bleed out on the field or pick his nose on national TV.
Speaking of the Packers and quarterbacks, here’s some math for you.
Minnesota is the land of 10,000 lakes, and, after Favre’s latest playoff choke job, nearly as many suicides.
There’s more. Non-smokers expect to live long, healthy lives, while smokers such as myself are happy if we don’t hack up phlegm in public.
It’s called the upside of cynicism, people. I embrace it like one would a warm Snuggie.
But math has no upside. If math were an athlete, it would be an undrafted free agent.
If it were a band, it would remain unsigned by the major labels.
And if it were a woman, I would never date it, no matter how sexy the curve of her parabola.
I must confess: I’m a recovering math geek. The subject and I have a history. And now I’m afraid whatever cancer was in remission has a chance of coming back, 10-fold.
Even when I was on the math team in junior high, hanging with the pocket protector set, I sensed something was amiss.
What were we competing for, who would get their asses kicked the worst during lunch?
The others wore button-down shirts and worshipped the Pythagorean Theorem, while I just scored well in standardized testing.
I was thrown in the mix like some schlub into a World of Warcraft player’s trunk.
Just remember this, please: if you see me on campus, wearing wrinkled clothing and sporting a bad haircut—that’s how I always look.
I may look like a math-lover, but I guarantee you, my love of the subject doesn’t extend beyond calculating yards per carry.
So if “x” equals three and “y” equals negative eight, what does “x” plus “2y” have to equal for me to give a damn?
I know the answer, but I’ll pretend I don’t.
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