A mass of incandescent gas, a giant nuclear furnace

I gave an exam this week. I usually make them a combination of multiple choice and short answer questions. The problem with that is that I then have to grade the short answer questions. It's not bad when I'm grading the good students' exams. Or the really bad students who just leave everything blank (it's quite easy to write a big X and a zero on the page). But the students who haven't studied AND write a lot? Sometimes they make me want to jam ice picks into my temple.

For example, one of the short answer questions asked them to list three adaptations that birds have for flight. Simple enough right? After all, pretty much any four year old who has ever seen a bird could get two of the three: feathers and wings. Sadly, that would be one or two more than some of my students got. One answer said this: wings are involved, and the fight or flight response allowed them to evolve flight. Okay, fine, you get one out of three, but the fight or flight response? Really? Especially when the example I used is what might happen to you physiologically if you almost stepped on a rattlesnake? Because that's happened to me plenty of times, and I've never taken to the air.

(In contrast, some of the incorrect answers make me laugh. For example, I also asked them what a circadian rhythm was. One student put that it had something to do with funky beats. Awesome. Still no points, but awesome.)

Luckily, as the instructor, I have the power to make the TAs help me grade. So I did. Usually bribery with pizza does the trick, but this time we were grading a little later, and one of the TAs had a migraine, so I excused her from the additional pain of reading. I told the other TA that I'd buy dinner after we finished. She saved me about three hours worth of time, so it was well worth it from my end.

We went to dinner, had a very good meal, but the story that I really want to tell occurred right after. We had agreed to meet some other friends for pub trivia that night, so we both figured it'd be good to visit the restrooms (that were clean) before going to the pub.

While I was in the bathroom, I heard a couple of little kids talking to each other from separate stalls. Brothers I assume. One of them called the other one to help him with something (buttoning his pants, I think - neither of them could've been older than five) as I was walking to the sink to wash my hands. Thinking the coast was clear, I felt the need to pass some gas while I was washing my hands. So I did. Unfortunately for one of the little kids, he'd chosen that exact time to walk directly behind me (unbeknownst to me until after I farted directly on his head).

I saw him in the mirror as his reflection emerged from its hiding place directly behind mine not two seconds after the deadly gas blasted him. The look on his face just said, "Why would you do that to me? WHY?"

Sorry kid.

But it could've been worse. I could've sharted.

What's the name of this song? Explosivo!

I was reminded of this story last night, and even though it's not my story to tell, I'm going to tell it anyway. I have no shame, and since names are left out, I don't feel bad about telling embarrassing stories about various people I know.

A few years ago, a guy left town to spend the holidays with his girlfriend's family. They spent the night at her brother's house, and apparently something he had eaten that day didn't agree with him. He awoke in the middle of the night with a gurgling in his stomach, and he knew it was time to go to the bathroom. So, he hurried and sat on the toilet just in time for the diarrhea to hit. He sat there until he was sure he was finished, and got up to start washing his hands when suddenly he felt the urge to vomit. So he hit his knees and hugged the toilet bowl. Unfortunately for him, the act of vomiting contracted his core muscles in such a way that we squirted more diarrhea all over the bathroom wall and the back of his legs.

He did his best to clean up the floor and wall, then jumped into the shower. While showering he had another spurt from the back end and sprayed the shower tiles. Luckily, that just washed on down the drain. He eventually got everything cleaned up and crawled back into bed. Before going back to sleep he mentioned to his girlfriend that they may need to check again in the morning to make sure he got everything.

I now greet this guy with a two handed salute that points out from the mouth with one hand, and the butt with the other hand. To many it probably looks like some juvenile variation of Saturday Night Fever, but anyone who knows the story realizes it's to symbolize the bidirectional fountain that was him on that night.

Now you know where I came up with one of my rules to live by: Always choose to clean up vomit over cleaning up diarrhea if you're forced to make such a decision.

What's the name of the song? Explosivo!

Today I was in the bathroom, standing at the urinal, when a man with a reputation for 'fecal explosions' walked in. By that I mean that he has been rumored to spray the back walls of various bathrooms. Enough so that nobody wants to share a room with him when they're traveling together. Some of the people who've been forced to share a room with him are the ones I've heard the stories from.

As I stood there and finished draining my bladder, there was a part of me that wanted to stick around for a few more minutes, just to find out if the stories were true. Then the old adage "curiosity killed the cat" came to mind and I fled the premises.

I'm certain that I made the right decision.