[Industrialblog,
February 19, 2007]
ROFLMAO
Here are some people after my own heart. I used to want to write things like this on my math tests, but never did.
(Drink warning.)
UPDATE: Now I remember why I didn't become an engineer, even though my father owned his own engineering firm (well, he owned half the firm, and his name was second on the front door) and it would have been MINE MINE ALL MINE BWAHAHAHA by the time I was 30 had I actually gone into engineering. Betcha didn't know that about me.
I could be living in a refurbished farmhouse in Cranbury, N.J., commuting a few miles each day in my refurbished 1970 El Dorado convertible to my own engineering firm on Alexander Road in Princeton, and living large the American Dream. I had the math scores to study engineering.
And it's not like my father's firm was in a difficult field — it was a civil engineering firm, the wet-mopping of engineering. I practically picked it up working as a draftsman for the firm in college. (Shit runs downhill, as does water ... materials come down to tensile, compression and sheer strength, and check the charts for any actual design work. The rest is fairly intuitive.)
Example: One night, I was forced to go to a township committee meeting. A question was put to the township engineer (my father's partner). He was the expert, you see. All the councilmen turned to him. And what was the question requiring such brilliance, such education, such expertise to answer?
A store owner wanted to build a new parking lot, but the lot would be at a higher elevation than the road leading to it. NOW WHAT WAS TO BE DONE? My God, you need five years of civil engineering school for this one. Well, my father's partner gave a brilliant answer ... he gave 'em their money's worth, he discussed the importance of the question, the potential consequences, and that there were many options, and then, at the end of his little talk, slyly gave up the game. He said, "We will find a way to bring the parking lot down, or the road up." That is, a FUCKING RAMP. Something a FUCKING CAVEMAN could've figured out by dragging a bleeding anteater carcass over the area enough times! And yes, you can look up the ramp's slope in a book of tables.
But I couldn't stand the math, so that's why I didn't become an engineer. Plus, I always wanted to be a writer, which is funny, because both of my parents wanted to be writers, but neither were, and neither ever told me that until they were much older. Perhaps I subconsciously sought to fulfill their dreams, but I doubt it. I think it's because YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THE MATH. Not that I can't do it, you see. I just don't want to.
(Drink warning.)
UPDATE: Now I remember why I didn't become an engineer, even though my father owned his own engineering firm (well, he owned half the firm, and his name was second on the front door) and it would have been MINE MINE ALL MINE BWAHAHAHA by the time I was 30 had I actually gone into engineering. Betcha didn't know that about me.
I could be living in a refurbished farmhouse in Cranbury, N.J., commuting a few miles each day in my refurbished 1970 El Dorado convertible to my own engineering firm on Alexander Road in Princeton, and living large the American Dream. I had the math scores to study engineering.
And it's not like my father's firm was in a difficult field — it was a civil engineering firm, the wet-mopping of engineering. I practically picked it up working as a draftsman for the firm in college. (Shit runs downhill, as does water ... materials come down to tensile, compression and sheer strength, and check the charts for any actual design work. The rest is fairly intuitive.)
Example: One night, I was forced to go to a township committee meeting. A question was put to the township engineer (my father's partner). He was the expert, you see. All the councilmen turned to him. And what was the question requiring such brilliance, such education, such expertise to answer?
A store owner wanted to build a new parking lot, but the lot would be at a higher elevation than the road leading to it. NOW WHAT WAS TO BE DONE? My God, you need five years of civil engineering school for this one. Well, my father's partner gave a brilliant answer ... he gave 'em their money's worth, he discussed the importance of the question, the potential consequences, and that there were many options, and then, at the end of his little talk, slyly gave up the game. He said, "We will find a way to bring the parking lot down, or the road up." That is, a FUCKING RAMP. Something a FUCKING CAVEMAN could've figured out by dragging a bleeding anteater carcass over the area enough times! And yes, you can look up the ramp's slope in a book of tables.
But I couldn't stand the math, so that's why I didn't become an engineer. Plus, I always wanted to be a writer, which is funny, because both of my parents wanted to be writers, but neither were, and neither ever told me that until they were much older. Perhaps I subconsciously sought to fulfill their dreams, but I doubt it. I think it's because YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THE MATH. Not that I can't do it, you see. I just don't want to.
What got in the way was, as I proceeded through my graduate studies in math, somehow I was ambushed and shanghaied by the Church Fathers. One cannot be too careful about reading Athanasius while studying differential geometry; for Athanasius may win out.
I know that's a path to seminary that hardly anyone follows. But in my case, that's the way it went.