Former Artistic Aspirations

I took the written portion of my M.A. exam today. I am both relieved and simultaneously terrified, because not only am I worried about how I did today, but I also have to worry about the oral portion which I take on Friday.

But enough of that. I’ve got a silly story to tell and not much time before the Daily Show comes on, so let’s get the jackass show on the road, shall we?

My first year of high school I went to a big urban school, which had lots to offer students, not the least of which were teachers which didn’t give a damn if you passed, failed, or showed up at all. This was quite a change from the small school where I had attended grammar school. Needless to say I hated it.

The only good thing about the big high school was it afforded me the opportunity to choose the classes I wanted to take. I had the choice between Ag shop and homemaking. Hmmm”¦I could spend fifty minutes a day in a tin shop with no air conditioning with a bunch of asshole alpha males or fifty minutes a day with a bunch of girls in a cool room cooking and eating. Guess which one I chose?

The next year I transferred to a small country school. The atmosphere was better but the class offerings were not. A school that boasts 160 kids K-12 doesn’t really have a lot to offer in the way of electives. Hell, they were lucky to have the teachers needed to teach state required classes. Needless to say there was not a homemaking class. I was forced to take Ag in a hot tin building with a bunch of assholes.

I loathed every minute of it. My parents owned a huge dairy where I worked with livestock, and I was forced to study livestock at school in a formal setting. Bleh. The only fun part was the welding portion. Much to my surprise I was, and probably still am, very good at it. My grandfather had worked as a welder for decades and I cherished the tutoring sessions he gave me.

At the beginning of the year our “instructor,” who was missing two fingers and I’m not kidding about that folks, made us a proposition: if we could weld nails several together we wouldn’t have to take any tests and would instantly be granted a one hundred for that portion of the course. Why, you ask? Well because small nails are so skinny they are fairly difficult to weld with any accuracy, hence he thought he was giving us an impossible task. I say thee nay, thou tyrannical amputee!

I practiced with my grandfather until I was effortlessly able to weld nails together without burning them in twain. I went to school and proudly displayed my awesome welding ability to our “instructor.” He refused to give me the hundred. I got pissed and began to sulk. I spent the rest of the class playing with my leftover nails and the welder. I used my anger and my despondency to fashion what I considered a magnificent piece of modern art with my leftover nails. When I was almost done with my masterpiece the instructor noticed what I was constructing and told me if I didn’t stop and destroy my art he would expel me from his class. I looked him in the eye, laughed at him, and finished my project. He kicked me out. I didn’t take Ag any more.

To view my awe-inspiring artwork in all it’s uncensored glory click the thumbnail below, but take heart, it’s not for those easily offended by the completely natural sight of nail-love.
And yes, I am currently in search of and interviewing potential patrons. Long-haired freaky people need not apply.

And no, I don’t know why I obsessively keep needless crap like my welded nail-men. But I do.

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