Archive | June, 2010

I Take My Teaching Test

29 Jun

This past Saturday, I took the test to certify me to teach high school English.

The middle school is in the middle of a large, rural area. A group of potential teachers and I all stand outside the school’s front door, waiting to take our certification tests. Across the street from the blandly colored and blandly designed building is a seemingly boundless cornfield. The call of locusts reverberates all around me. A sound so ubiquitous that it seems to come from the heat itself.

“I think these locusts come with the heat itself. I never hear them when I’m in air conditioning,” I say in a low voice to the woman beside me, as if I’ve discovered something previously unknown and of which I’d like to keep secret.

“You don’t hear it in air conditioning because air conditioning is indoors.”

I stare at her blankly.

“Locusts live outside.”

She pauses, waiting for me to respond. I don’t.

“In the heat,” she says.

“Yes. In the heat,” I respond.


“So locusts live in the heat that’s what I just said.”

She begins to turn and walk away. I assume she’s hard of hearing.

“Good luck on the special needs test!” I call, making sure to enunciate each word. She turns toward me, violently. Several surrounding conversations cease. “You gonna do good job!” I hold my thumbs up. She takes a few steps forward.

Very quietly she says, “The special needs test,” she pauses. “Is for people who want to teach those with special needs. They aren’t people with special needs who want to teach.”

“Then why’s that guy here?” I ask, pointing to a middle-aged gentleman approaching in a wheel chair. The woman looks to him, then to me.

“You’re unbelievable.” She then walks away and stands by the door.

I breathe deeply through my nose, filling my chest with air. I feel strong. I feel powerful. I feel unbelievable.

A noise is heard from the entryway and all eyes turn to see that the door is being opened.

“Sorry for the wait, everybody,” the man at the door says.

The crowd shuffles gratefully to the cool air. Like a bunch of monkeys running to the monkey hat pile after all their hats have been taken away.

“Thank god,” one large, spherical woman says. “I was sweatin’ like a stuck pig.”

“A stuck pig? As with a knife?” I ask.

She nods.

“Horrific. Horrific imagery,” I say, my lips pursed, head shaking from side to side in disapproval. The woman looks at me, confused. I repeat, “Horrific imagery.”

We’re escorted through a small walkway, with windows looking into the main office on our right. The man who let us in instructs us to go to the cafeteria to check in. The building’s interior is as underwhelming as its exterior. Its colors a pallet of brown tones. Remnants of tape sit tacked to the walls. The leftbehinds of sticky paper. The old don’t-need-no-mores of adhesive strips. The lockers are covered in chips and you can see all the layers of paint that have come before. It looks as if the lockers were painted to fit into some kind of urban camouflage. Idiot lockers standing silently in an idiot hallway.

A single line of participants forms in the cafeteria. At the head of the line sit what I assume are two teachers that are on summer vacation. I reach the front of the line, hand over my papers, and am directed to the room where I’ll be taking my test. It’s room seven.

“You know where that is?” the teacher who checks me in asks.

“Room seven?”


“Sir, if I can’t find a room in a building so small that the rooms are numbered in single digits, I don’t deserve to be a teacher.” I put my license in my breast pocket, flip my hair back, and walk past the table.

**I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. You’re thinking I’m about to come back and ask for directions to room seven. Nope. Assumption be damned. Not gonna do that.**

After getting lost, I sit on the floor and begin to scream out for an adult. Several faculty members frantically approach me. They’re all breathing heavily and clearly frustrated by the man-child who lays huddled before them.

“Where’s room seven?” I ask. “I’m lost.” Thoughts shift to the island.


I’m directed by a man in a large black Under-Armour polo to room seven, which was just ten or so feet away. I could actually see it from my cry-spot. Go figure.

Upon opening the door and entering the room, I see four rows of five desks. This ends up figuring to about 130 desks [Editor’s Note: Really?]. The room smells stale and looks like it doesn’t want to live any more. This is also how I would describe the woman administering the test.

“No cell phones,” she mumbles from her loose, colorless mouth.

I scoff, incredulous. “Lose the phone?” I look to a few of the other participants. “But how will I tweet?

“Put the phone away or I’ll have to ask you to leave,” she says.

“Um, @old lady standing over me, you’re kind of hurting my feelings.”

Her response is to silently hold her hand out to me. I put my phone in it and loudly drop my elbows onto the desktop, my face resting atop clenched fists.

Pouty face.

Another, younger, woman who is assisting the proctor begins to pass out the tests. I consider slapping her ass or something, but by this time, I’m so tired of test taking that I just sit there motionless, slumped back in my seat like the last inches of a melting candle.

The test moves slowly. Ninety questions, all hypothetical, all with multiple answers that, in my mind, could be correct.

Here’s a brief transcription of my thoughts as I progress through the test.

Question 5: “This is easy! I’m going to finish in like an hour!”

Question 28: “How the Hell am I supposed to know this? I’m not a teacher yet.”

Question 45: “Whoaaaa! We’re halfway there! WHOOOOAAA! We’re livin’ on a prayer!”

Question 50: “Where’s ‘E. Someone stab me when I go to the bathroom.’?”

Question 61: “I don’t want to teach anymore.”

Question 70: “I want to scream.”

Question 80: “I hate education.”

Question 90: “All right! Done! I can’t wait to teach.”

There are also a number of short answer questions. I snuck a camera in and took some pics of the more challenging questions.

Then there was this question, which I thought a little unfair and, frankly, a bit offensive.

Pretty sure I marked true on this one.

I finish the test, close the book, take the completed test and answer sheet to the proctor, retrieve my cell phone and leave. My fate sealed.

My sate fealed.


My Favorite Deadly Sins: A Ranking

24 Jun

Today’s post is one that I was particularly excited/damned by. I’ve always admired the good guys because, well, they’re good. They promote harmony, maintain peace, and usually have movies made about them. I’d like a movie made about me. In spite of this love of good, sometimes, it’s fun to do bad stuff. It’s fun to do hood shit. I don’t advise making a lifestyle out of these, but a dabble here and there, a bit of drinking, a bit of the VD, I think does a body good.

So, I’ve ranked the Seven Deadly Sins in order of how much I love doing them. Here we go…to HELL!

1. Gluttony

Gluttony–overindulgence. Over-consumption. Over-awesome fun. I love eating, and I’m sure it pisses God the Hell off [Editor’s Note: Careful] when I eat three cheesy biscuits before my three course meal at Red Lobster, but what I think really honks God’s wiener [Editor’s Note: Please], is extreme wastefulness, another aspect of gluttony. My dog had puppies last week. Everybody loves puppies; but, instead of giving them away or taking them to the pound, thereby sharing my puppy wealth, I blind-folded the little dogs and pushed them into a creek.

Ain’t I a stinker?

2. Pride

Here’s what Wikipedia had to say on pride:

Pride (Latin, superbia), or hubris, is identified as a desire to be more important or attractive than others, failing to acknowledge the good work of others, and excessive love of self (especially holding self out of proper position toward God). Dante’s definition was “love of self perverted to hatred and contempt for one’s neighbour.”

Yea, I’ll take a double of that.

In Diet Coke–this body was no accident.

Also, I’m not including Envy in this list because I’m not envious of anybody.

3. Sloth

My lifestyle requires a large, seemingly endless cash-flow of which I’d like to personally earn as little as possible. It’s not that I’m not willing to work, because I’ve had jobs, I just try to avoid things like “training sessions” and “cleaning.”

Do you know what English majors do in college? They read. Yea. That thing that most of you do for leisure when you want to unwind or stimulate yourself (lol)? I got a degree in that. So, if there’s an apocalypse and the Alien/Zombie/Communist overlords are rounding up our most skilled to create a new colony, I’ll be able to proudly declare that “I can read!”

I will then sit back down in the pile of ash I have claimed as my bed-toilet and wait for somebody to tell me where to start digging my own grave.

4. Wrath

Some would say that Pride is at the core of every sin. I say nay. I say Wrath is the source. Now follow me here. Wrath is defined as uncontrollable rage or anger. Okay.

  1. Lust- You’re mad at your penis/vagina for its disuse.
  2. Sloth- You’re mad at the remote for not being able to float to you when you want it.
  3. Pride- You’re mad at everyone else for not appreciating how mind-numbingly attractive you are.
  4. Envy- You’re mad at Jay-Z for being a multi-millionaire rapper and business man that gets to regularly have sex with Beyoncé.
  5. Gluttony- You’re mad at those cheese fries for being so delicious and so not inside your stomach.
  6. Greed- You’re mad at your wallet for being so inexplicably empty. Didn’t you just get paid the other day?
  7. Wrath- You’re mad at something, so you might hit it or yell at it or something.

I rest my case.

5. Greed

Perhaps because it’s one of the greatest causes of the economic crisis that is gripping our nation, or perhaps because it rhymes with “Creed,” everybody hates greed just a little more than the rest of the Deadly Sins. See, people can get behind laziness. Naps are awesome. People can get behind lust and gluttony because boobs and fried chicken are great and when you put them together they only get better, but with greed–ew, yucky, most people think. And I’d agree, for the most part, greed is markedly ew and acutely yucky.

But come on, haven’t you ever played Monopoly? You know when you get to that one point in the game where it’s just you and one or two other players, and pretty much all that’s happening is them going around the board, paying you rent, slowly expending their fortunes–all the while, you just sit back and collect, smiling broadly, repeating in a sickening air of false modesty that ‘the game isn’t over yet’ and that ‘anything is possible’? Yea, pretty great, huh? You know who makes that feeling possible? The great people at Hasbro and their partners in Hell.

I also love eating all the free tortilla chips when I go to Mexican restaurants.

6. Lust

I love women. I love all of the women. You would probably assume that that fact alone would vault this sin to the top of the list. No dice. You see, lust is relegated to merely thinking and fantasizing about someone in a purely sexual or erotic fashion. Just thinking and fantasizing. These mental pornos are fun for a while, but when you come back to reality, alone and unserviced, you find out how much thinking and fantasizing sucks. This isn’t to say that I’m against finding a woman to be attractive; that’s not what I’m saying. I think there is a difference between finding a woman attractive and fantasizing about what size ball gag she’d wear (You’d be surprised what isn’t one-size-fits-all.).

I spend hours upon hours upon hours pretending to be interested in what attractive women are saying to me, all the while I’m actually wondering what fruit their breasts most resemble when naked (Oranges? Watermelons? …Bananas?). Do you have any idea how exhausting that gets? After a night out, I’m absolutely famished.

So yea, I’ll stand by this.

And I stand by not including envy on this list.

The End.

I Solve the BP Crisis

20 Jun

“OIL!” I scream, slamming my hand down on the oak conference table. “Millions of gallons of oil!

Silence around the table. Behind me, a typist types stuff.

“Are you getting all this?” I ask the typist.

“Yes, Mr. Irion,” she responds. She’s an older woman, gray haired and slightly bent, with eyes that seem tired and a bit weary. Looking at the woman depresses me and makes me think of my own death, so I turn away.

“We need to fix this oil crisis, boy-o’s. Things is gettin’ shitty.”

“Mr. Irion,” a board member begins. “We know this. We need solutions, though, not just vague maxims.”

“Gentlemen,” I say, rising to my feet. “I have a solution for you. AND I have a maxim. In fact, they’re one in the same.”

The room holds its breath as I begin to speak. I lean forward, placing my hands flat on the table. A nervous suspense fills the air.

“Even the sea floor needs to get its ass kicked every now and then.”



The typist can be heard muttering the word “What?” softly to herself. I’m going to check back later to see if she included that “What?” in her report. If not, she’s fired.

“What the hell are you talking about?” another board member asks.

“I think you know damn well what I’m talking about. I’m talking about blowing up the ocean and starting all over.

“What the hell do you mean ‘starting all over’? What are we going to start over?” The VP asks.

“The ocean. We’ve pretty much fucked the gulf coast to the point that it’s now just a loose, wet sleeve hanging loosely between mother nature’s trembling, ill-shaven legs.”

Several members of the board cringe. A lone, indignant “Come on” can be heard from somewhere in the rear of the room.

I cringe a little too.

“Okay, maybe we don’t like the blowing up the ocean idea. But what about THIS.” I bring out a small graphic I made that morning. It’s a map of the gulf coastal region. Much of the coast as well as the entirety of Mexico has been blacked out.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the Director of Emergency Finance asks.

“Let’s just put a big, Hefty trash bag over all of the Gulf Coast! It’s pretty much trashed anyway! This way we can say that here at BP, we always put our trash where it belongs–in trash bags!

“Are you serious?” one man asks.

“What are your credentials?” another board member asks.

“Who let you in here?” the VP asks. His head cocks to the side and, peering forward, asks “Are you crying?

I am now crying.

“Why is he crying?” the typist asks.

Questions swirl about me. A sweat breaks out along my back and shoulders. I’m losing my audience. I reach into my pocket. Two small, spherical objects meet my grasp. I draw my hand high and throw the objects on the ground; they immediately burst, spewing forth plumes of great, black smoke. I bolt to the door, but in all the smoke I get disoriented and run the wrong direction, colliding with the typist and hitting my head on the adjacent wall.

I wake up on the steps of BP headquarters with a pink slip and my copy of the meeting’s transcript.

Wearily, I rub the bump on my head and check my hand for blood. I begin to flip through the pages of the report.

“Son of a bitch,” I say to myself.

Two thirds down the page, a lone “What?” is recorded.

I Decide to Teach

15 Jun

I love money. Money makes me feel better. Money makes me feel safe and warm and like I’ve made it in this world.

You know what people don’t give you money for?

Just about anything I do.

So, last Tuesday (or Wednesday, I’m not sure. Being unemployed absolutely destroys your sense of time.), I decided it was time to find something I could do that wouldn’t crush my soul and that would allow me to make enough paper to keep my fish fed and my jeans just holey enough to say that I’m freewheelin’, but not so holey as to suggest that someone needs to pray for me.

I applied online to get certified teach English at the high school level. I’m going to be the most popular boy in school because I can change everyone’s grades and I’m taller than most of the other kids.

I started the online portion this week. They have a lesson for calling on the students. Their methods differ greatly from my own, in which I simply point, and with an expression of bald, pallid terror, scream and point at the child. They want me to call the child by his or her name–their real name, not one of the many hilarious nick names (based largely on their physical appearance) that I would ascribe to them.

Below are some pictures of kids that came up when I typed “high school student” into Google Image Search, as well as an example of the nickname I would give that child.

[Redacted by Editor]

Ugly Joe.

[Redacted by Editor]

Butt Mouth

[Redacted by Editor]

Ghost (I call him this because, three years from now, that’s what he’ll be.)

[Redacted by Editor]

Dude, Where’s My Future?

Haha, great. Really great.

Of course, if my future employers were to read this, they may be troubled. I’d like to personally extend this message to any prospective employer who stumbled upon my page while Googling “Robert Irion,” “Kyle Irion,” or “tree sex.” It’s from my favorite President, John F. Kennedy, sent to exile leader Pepe San Roman on April 17, 1961–the day of the Bay of Pigs invasion:


A Brief Snippet from Denton, Texas.

5 Jun

Saturday night, I got in my 2002 Honda Civic that I’ve modded to look like a 2002 Honda Civic with lots of hail damage and barreled toward Denton, Texas. City of Dreams. City of Magic. City of Cheap Booze, Cheap Women, and even Cheaper Clothing.

I’m writing this on Thursday. For those of you who don’t “do” math, that’s four days. And for three of those days, I didn’t get on the internet. That means I didn’t check facebook, twitter, my e-mail, my blog stats, or look at my favorite picture of a human ever. I didn’t check these things because I was “vacationing.”

Below is my day by day diary of my Denton vacation.

Day 1:

“I love this city,” I say to my friend, Chris, who is holding my beautiful quaff of curly hair back as I vomit into a storm drain.

“I know, buddy. I know.” He pats me on the back with his free hand.

Chris helps me to my feet and, with my left arm slung over his neck, we make the long, staggered walk back to his car. It is Saturday night, but it is also Sunday morning. In Denton, Texas, time is a liquid, fickle thing.

“In Denton, Texas, time is a liquid, fickle thing,” I say, tilting my head up to speak to Chris.

“Jesus, man, your breath.” Chris grimaces and turns his head, making his nose as far from me as possible. “Stop it.”

“I’m sorry, Christian.”

“Stop calling me Christian.”

“Am I dead, too?” I ask. Chris starts to answer, then stops himself, beginning a new thought.

“Is this a LOST thing?” Chris asks.

“We’re all lost, Christ.”

“Calling me ‘Christ’ is worse.”


“I promise you it is.”

Chris drags me to the passenger side of his car, pulls the door open, and drops me in.

It totally was a LOST thing, by the way.

When we get back to Chris’s house, he pulls me into the living room and drops me onto the couch. I begin a slow crawl to the nearest computer. I need to know who’s all over the book of my face. My face book.

Social networking is a terrifying, godless enterprise.

“CHRIS!” I call from the kitchen. “CHRIS, your computer’s broken!”

Chris rushes in to find me laying on the ground with my hand in his toaster, which I have pulled onto the ground.

“God in Heaven,” Chris says to himself.

I fall asleep somewhere soon thereafter.

Day 2:

I wake up feeling the exact inverse of the euphoria I felt the night before. I feel stale, like I’ve past my expiration date, but I’ve been pushed far back into the refrigerator behind a tub of butter and have been all but forgotten. Well, I’m still here.

I’m still here.

I roll off the couch and make a slow crawl to the bathroom. If I can get there, all will be taken care of. In the bathroom is everything I will need for the next hour. There is Advil. There is water. There is shower. There is working toilet. Ironically enough, those are the same selling points I use on my OKCupid account.

I come out of the bathroom refreshed and ready to take on the day.

“Morning, Chris,” I say, sitting down at the kitchen table. Chris sets a cup of coffee in front of me, then sits down with a cup of his own.

“I’m thinking about going swimming with some girls today.”

“I’m thinking about telling you that I peed in your linen closet,” I respond.

Eight seconds of uninterrupted, tense eye-contact.

I continue, “When’re we going swimming?”

“We’re going in a few minutes. Did you–?” Chris points to his linen closet. His dog is sniffing at the door and scratching at its base.

“Don’t worry about that. Let’s go get some boners.” I get up, throw my coffee cup in the sink, and begin walking out to the car. “I’m going to need a pair of shorts!” I call. “My other ones are covered in piss!” the front door slams shut and Chris is alone in the kitchen. The room is silent except for the sharp but soft sound of claws on closet door.

We arrive at the pool. Chris and I are joined by our friend Michael, who likes to be called by his last name because, in his words, “First names are for pussies and guys named ‘Kyle.'”

Is he talking about me? I think to myself. Is he? I begin to create a comeback when I see a woman that makes my pants jiggle. Radio silence.

Day 3:

“What?!” I wake up, sitting up with a start. “Bieber?” I ask. It’s been several day since I’ve read any celebrity news. My brain has compensated by creating it in my dreams. I wake up believing that I’m dating a Justin Bieber while also fathering Lindsay Lohan’s illegitimate child and beating Scott Disick’s ass.

“You’re dreaming again,” Chris says to me. I love Chris.

I usher myself back to sleep, where I will undoubtedly bang Usher.

I love you, readers.

Happy Saturday, everyone.

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