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Some Guys Do Nothing but Complain
Oh, boy! I’m about to take the Intellect. When I woke up, I didn’t even throw my alarm clock out the window like usual. Now, I’m so excited. This is killing me. The proctor is calling up people for ID checks and boy, are some of these people’s IDs lousy.
“Hey, you’ve got the wrong calculator! No purple calculators allowed on Tuesdays!” The proctor says to some phony, who’s eliminated. The guy probably didn’t even prepare for this test as much as I did—I’ve spent months with my Guide to the Intellect book! Boy, bookstores really bore me. I like books, but all those people in line are such pains. All they do is brag about which Dickens book they’re on now, which really kills me, because if they really liked the book, they wouldn’t be bragging ‘till the whole lame store is staring at them and even then they don’t quit. Anyway, now we’re starting on the math section of the Intellect. The first question asks the distance between the Boston Globe building and Boston Public Library. Some flit is crying and saying that it’s not fair, because we live in New York. His screams are so rude and loud. I’m not kidding!
“You’re creating a public disturbance! Gentlemen,” the nice proctor snaps his fingers and these two huge armed bodyguards escort the phony out. I can’t believe this! It’s his fault and he should have studied harder. I go back to my work until the proctor calls for a break. “You’ve all got ten minutes,” he says. After I get past the crazy mob to use the restroom, the proctor starts passing out cheap little bags of airline peanuts and these huge bottles of Snapple. “This is your mandatory snack and mandatory drink.”
“What if we’re allergic to peanuts?” Some depressing idiot in the back asks.
“Oh, yeah. Who in here is allergic to peanuts or peanut foods?” The proctor asks. Twenty people raise their lousy hands. For Chrissake! “You’re all eliminated,” the proctor says as the bodyguards do their job. The phonies all start moaning. Serves them right. I can’t stand people who can’t follow directions or warnings before signing up for an Intellect.
At the end of the whole nice test, only I and some flit haven’t been eliminated. The proctor hands us these boxes and tells us to figure out how to put our tests in the box.
“What?!” The flit yells. “You mean our scores only count if we can put our tests back in a box that appears to have no opening?! After all I did? I followed everything! I hunted down this room, parked in the right space, bought the Guide to the Intellect, brought the right calculator and ID, answered all the questions, ate your mandatory snack and drink, went to the bathroom only when I was supposed to, and now my score won’t even count?! That means I’ll have to retake this torturous test after all this?! This test is impossible!” I’m glad when the bodyguards start to take him away. He’s so annoying.
“Look at Tristan here,” the nice proctor points to me. “He has to retake it, and he’s not complaining.”
“Yes,” I say. “I can’t figure out how to open this crumby box, but I don’t care. I’ll just sign up for the next Intellect. This was fun.” The flit glares at me as he’s being dragged off and I swear I can see him forming a fist, but I don’t care.
“All you Intellect people care about is making our generation smarter, while you guys relax so we do all your work for you!” The flit has to get in.
“That’s not true!” The proctor says. “My colleagues and me are very intelligent!”
“My colleagues and I!” The flit screams before being handcuffed.
What a lousy jerk. Boy, some people never learn.