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The Misadventures of Benjamin J.

By guest author Benjamin J.

I failed computer science because I refused to waste disk space with adequate comments in my assignments. Professor Standwish said that code is written for people, not computers. Can you believe the nerve of this wrinkle-nosed artifact? This is a man who wears western shirts and bolo ties as formal attire.

Of course code is not written for people. It goes in a computer, genius. I was the first one to ever challenge the renowned doctor on this issue. I alone bear that distinguishing mark. Like Sam Kinison taught me, I always speak my mind even when it is not popular and especially when others are made to feel uncomfortable (I was born after Kinison died).

Standwish was livid. He actually called my father on a busy Monday to inform him how I had not done my assignments properly and that my behavior in class meant I would not be, in fact, the next Steve Jobs. He said I would only get an F and I could not buy my way out of it. All because I am still technically a minor.

“You'll never be Steve Jobs, ever!” Standwish had shouted at me as I was forced to deal with conflicting internal emotions that are out of step with my sense of self.

How dare he lay those harsh criticisms on me, a clinical sufferer of affluenza? That liberal Jew doesn't even have the decency to be neoconservative. What has he ever done for his field except write the book on the subject that everyone always talks about that changed the game forever? The Standard Programmer's Compendium by Dr. Himen M. Standwish, et al may very well be a masterpiece and a mark above anything before it. I grant that. I leaned greatly on his work in developing my own Diamond-88 computer language that features a no commenting feature.

My criticism is that Professor Standwish could do so much more with his mind, were he to listen to what I have to say. He is resting on his laurels, content in his past victories. He supports the Maginot Line 100%. My father tried to convince him as well when the bleeding heart laggard called to talk about the wayward son, me, who had refused to waste any time commenting when my brilliant diamond-scale code speaks for itself. A word to the wise was not an effective tactic.

“Let the code speak for itself,” I announced in class during my scathing commentary on, not my own code, but on Dr. Standwish's strange obsession with well-documented structural programming and lack of acknowledging my very keen interpretations about the future of the art in which commenting is not permitted because it distracts from the brilliant, elegant form of code that I write essentially in my sleep. My talent has become a pure extension of my very well-manicured brain and I have well above average sleep times.

I had been officially named a prodigy after I developed my own computer language at age 12 called Diamond 88 that is infinitely scalable across platforms and has no provision for commenting. Standwish, instead of acknowledging my precocious genius (how textbook liberal can one be?), scolded me for speaking out of turn.

“Isn't class supposed to be a time for students to learn?” I asked casually while looking at my fingernails, none of which were missing even the slightest important detail.

My father was not fooled by this man. He knew what was going on, having been raised by a sailor (although admittedly grandpa was at sea quite often). Daddy, as strippers and gay men call him, being very prominent in an unspoken field, being someone, were I to name him, I would have to leave town because no one would ever let me earn my own way and would just give me handouts and free rides until I became a boycott hippie in a soiled tunic owing self-employment tax for some 1099. My dad knows exactly how these filthy liberals operate at university.

He wrote the book on it. I am not permitted to mention which book, but I am sure you have already read it and are smarter and more of a man because of it. That guy. Don't say his name out loud, please, it is embarrassing for me. I know you want to say it so badly. But please refrain. Professor Standwish was shocked when my father took time out of his extremely busy and stressful schedule to come out and exchange words unannounced.

“Are you Standwish?” asked my father, ever getting to the point because there is not any time to waste if you are a winner.

“Yes, hello to you. I am in the middle of a class, please see me later at my office hours,” said Standwish, who then turned to continue with the lecture. He seemed not to know that a winner is always persistent, especially when dealing with a certified academic hen.

“If you are in the middle class, meeting you would be of no use to me because you don't matter,” joked my father, and was already standing in front of Standwish. A winner always makes a bombastic entrance, certainty in hand. In a word: poised. A bull running amok. There is no option for a less-than-stern presence at all times. My father mastered the art, and is a cut above his peers.

“Well, you are here at any rate,” said Standwish, looking over his glasses with a finger in a book, “Now please leave. I have to get through recursion by end of period, I am not sure if I have time for your interruptions today.”

You see, liberals never manage their time. They procrastinate. They make excuses until the deadline passes and the balance is due with interest. The professor wasn't 110% sure he could do it, and his face showed it, even his shoes were not shined this morning. His shirt was only 25% tucked. He looked like a homeless person who just lost his free lunch and my father looked like a foreign prince who was about to commit an atrocity and get off Scot-free. Sure footed, at his best, my father continued.





“Your lecture cannot be terribly important. It can wait,” my father said, pointing a finger without missing a beat, “after we spoke about my child prodigy Benjamin yesterday, when you said he would not be Steven P. Jobs, I was so astounded I decided to come down here, to this third-world college, another typical den of you filthy liberals, to see whether or not it is worth $137,302.43 a year to continue to educate my firebrand on these premises. I don't think it is worth a Roosevelt nickel, now that I've met you. From the moment I walked in here, I have been shocked at what I saw. Your trousers look as if they have not been pressed.”

“And you can walk out of here, as well, right behind you,” said Standwish, waiving an eraser suddenly, “You are free to leave at any time. I am about to explain something that is going to be on the exam before the study session. Before we break out into our study groups. Do you see? I don't have time.”

This infuriated my father as it would any God-fearing Reaganite. Who was wasting who's time? My father was more important than everyone at Grand Valley Polytechnic and anyone else in the Grand Valley greater area, for that matter.

GVP is the worst school in the state. I only went there out of charity and a few indiscretions that I may have committed as a minor during a particularly courageous fight against worsening affluenza. I am not permitted by law to ever speak of those times. In the current instance, I was being treated like some sort of wandering peasant child who was caught planning to purchase a cache of arms across state lines.

I am not a law student, but that sounds like a case of double jeopardy to me. Not to mention that a minor with affluenza can hardly be held accountable for his actions. Any decent judge worth his gavel will inform you of that.

"Do you care about society?” asked my father, “because I am concerned you are setting the wrong example for these young people. I sell lumber. You are teaching the future of America that it is okay to be timid and feeble, besides terribly stupid. Plus you are not teaching the consequences – homeless shame. You want them on the government dime so you can undermine free markets? Is that your sadistic game? Are you a Sandinista sympathizer as well?”

“I don't think you belong here,” said professor Standwish, sidestepping the issue like his biggest hero Gore Vidal, “I must ask you to leave the room at once.”

My peers are bought and sold by the communist agenda. They seemed as if they were afraid or worried about the tension in the room. They did not know that my father was the most level-headed man in all of Tulsa. He was known to many as “sure fire” Luke for his business acumen. He was thrice commended by the Chamber of Commerce. Everyone is afraid of what he may do at any moment like a cat who might go suddenly crazy with a roll of paper towels.

My father lit a cigar, which usually takes him about five minutes on a calm day. He was tortured by his concern for right and wrong and Dr. Standwish's behavior had sent him to the very edge of the nightmare that society had gotten somehow worse and it was because of spinelessness and a certain lack of directed focus on the bottom line. That the pretentious man in western attire was passing on his ideas to young people is what caused my father to do what he did next.

That is when my always law-abiding father took Dr. Standwish's laptop (he was running Ubuntu, that communist platform) and smashed it on the floor. An act of courageous civil disobedience, Dr. Standwish's Kennedy attitude forced my father's homage to Thoreau.

“Damn right I don't belong here. This is what I think of your work, Standwish,” said my father, stomping aggressively upon electric green components, “you are ruining America with your attitude, this is what is wrong with our youth. People like you are sending the wrong message to our children, that they are special, spoiling them in their safe space. They are not special. They are losers. They should be beaten until they learn to respect authority! They should be taken out and shot. I say stop ruining my great-grandchildren's future. Lead, follow, or get out of the way, Tommy Chong.”

“What about my notebook that you gutted into oblivion?” asked Standwish as several of my peers took the opportunity to abandon the lecture hall and the cause of conservatism along with it as sirens wailed their approach in the distance, “It looks broken. Without it, I will not be able to get to recursion. I will have to call Michael... Or wait a minute, who is your TA, Steven? Okay. Steven. Now, will he be in session tonight? If he is, tell him that my notebook is in a state of disrepair and I need a new one before the review. We will be reviewing the material that is on the exam. Tell him it is urgent, and if he could call me, or come see me at my office, the hours are, Monday through Wednesday 3:00PM to 3:45PM. The sign-in sheet...”

“Now, where is the sign-in sheet? Hmmm. Marcos, where is the sign-in sheet for the office hours? It is on my desk? The other sign-in sheet? Bear in mind, the original sign-in sheet was misplaced. If you need to re-sign-in, please see Marcos, or Steven.”

“If you could just write that down on a post-it in case I forget. Stick it on my desk. And, Sarah, could you call campus security, just in case they are not already on the way, and have the unreasonable fascist man (is it Benjamin's father?) removed from the building? He has disrupted the lecture and committed assault, besides smoking and spreading authoritarian lies. We don't have much time before I assign groups, as many of you must already know. Did everyone understand about the sign-in sheet? Okay, are there any other questions before we break out?”

“The kids will never break out of the psychological prison in which you are condemning them to live. I want my son's grade changed to an A+,” announced my father, prepped to close the deal, “and I want you to be fired from this collectivist college immediately.”

“I am afraid we cannot do that,” said the campus police officer (a disgruntled union brother) who, having suddenly arrived, was committing career suicide by arresting my father, closing his cuffs sarcastically, “Dr. Standwish is tenured and you are going to have to come with me.”

“I won't be railroaded. What are the charges?” said my father, always winning, “You cannot restrain me, my father was a sailor, community college. I want my attorney to be present for this. You can get ready to work at sea for the rest of your days, Mr. Career Suicide. My father was a sailor.”

I wish I could tell you that the wrongs committed here were corrected, but I cannot do that without lying. I am many things but lying is not one of them. The university violated my father's freedom of speech. Professors like Dr. Standwish get away with it because they control the system. The socialist infiltration tactic has been very effective at producing incompetent monsters who ruin traditional America in their spare time.

I was given an F-, spelled out as “Eff Minus”, in computer science and I failed out of school because I also flunked my other classes when I was so despondent that I did not return to college. My affluenza kicked up a notch that summer. I will not let them pin a victim label on my forehead, no matter how many Castro-nistas and Stalin-grads they send to ruin my life.

Despite this persecution, I am still a winner. I decided to write a one hundred page book titled On Why You Don't Need A Degree To Be a True Winner, and beat those who have – a child prodigy's one-hundred page eye-opening look at the university game and fight to ease commenting restrictions in student assignments which I was fortunate to have published on Amazon.com. I will be the very next Steve Jobs. My motto - Let the code speak for itself. Shout out: viva Reagan-Bush 1980. 

===

“Look at all the beautiful white people,” said Nancy Reagan to a crowd in the Chicago suburb of Rosemont in February 1980, not knowing she was heard over loudspeaker. The crowd was 100% white. There was not an ethnic citizen anywhere near the gathering.

“How do you tell the Polish one at a dog fight?” joked Ronald Reagan during the same weekend to Senator Gordon Humphrey of New Hampshire and aides as his campaign bus left Keene for Milford, “He's the one with the duck. How do you tell the Italian one? He's the one who bets on the duck. How do you know the mafia is there? The duck wins.”

To better understand the meaning of the joke, it is important to be aware that Ronald Reagan is the duck.

“If an individual wants to discriminate against Negroes or others in selling or renting his house, it is his right to do so,” said Reagan during his 1966 campaign for governor of California.

“The food stamp program helps some strapping young buck ahead of you to buy a T-bone steak while you were waiting in line to buy hamburger,” said Reagan while stumping in a southern state.

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