If Quizzes are Quizzical...

So, one of the strangest occurrences in high school is this almost amazing ability for every teacher in the school to all schedule their tests on the same day.  And I say almost amazing because it is hella inconvenient for me.
Fortunately, I have my own ways of coping, so you needn't worry about my sanity...well, at least not in regards to my testing habits.

This is how I handle tests.

1. Before test is passed out, doodle when teacher says study.
2. Receive test.
3. Complete test.
4. Hand in test.
5. Look around awkwardly to see that everyone else in the room is still testing.
6. Resume doodling.

So all of my classes pretty much had testing for the past couple days, and because I'm a stud and finish my tests at lightning pace (that's right, studs are smart now.  SUCK IT FOOTBALL PLAYERS), I got a lot of drawing done.  And because not enough people stalk me on Facebook, I'll post them here!  That way I can sucker you into getting my blog more views without any work-----

I mean, show my artwork off to the world.  Yeah...that's it.

ANYWAY.  Here are some sweet drawings, if I do say so myself.



Five Clues You May Be an Overrated Musician

I woke up to the glorious sounds of Sir Mix-a-lot this morning, which was a pretty pleasant surprise.  I mean, come on!  Who doesn't want to wake up to a nice butt song?  I know I do.

However, listening to body-part rapping and about how anacondas don't want none if there's no bun (I'm so white, I'm neon) really got me thinking.  Sure, this guy created a relatively decent song about girls with rather large rear ends (I wonder how many synonyms for "butt" I can get in this paragraph), and sure, it's empowering to girls who view their buttocks as slightly too big, but has Sir Mixalot really done much to advance the music industry?  Has he influenced modern artists the way he has influenced ladies with prominent posteriors?

Of course not.  He just wrote a great song about butts.

Now this got me thinking even more about just how "artisty" most modern artists are, and I've decided that in lieu of a rant about how ridiculous they truly are, I shall explore a way to identify the artist (or "artist" --note the parentheses) so you, my dear readers, do not have to suffer through having to listen to their over-autotuned, over-glitzy, over-produced, and under-intelligent music.

I'm so nice it should be illegal.

So here we go.  I've presented five hints that can prove an artist's lack of ...artistry.



I swear, the artwork for this blog is just getting worse and worse.  At the rate I'm going, I'm probably going to have to study something useless in college, like English.

Anyway, reason number five.

Mishaps with Foo Fans

So I went to a concert last Wednesday night.  This band played.  You may have heard of them.  They call themselves the Foo Fighters.

Correct.  I went to a Foo Fighters concert.  No, I didn't bring you.  Suck it up.

Now, I don't want to brag or anything, but this was one of the best nights of my life.  Even my dad, the hardened Springsteen fanatic was geeking out about it, so it must have been a pretty good show.  But I'm not going into that.

Because other things occurred that night.  Strange and Mysterious things.  But seeing as this was my first visit to a modern rock concert, I sure hope that you forgive the amount of shock I felt when I noticed that the overall skinniest jeans were on the guys.

Anyway, my dad and I got into the arena about an hour before the opening band (Rise Against) played, because that's just who we are as people.  Most of the people were those older guys and girls who refused to accept the fact that they were in their mid-forties and were dressing about as fashionably as a freshmen in high school would (makeup and all). 

And you thought the teenagers and twenty-somethings in skinny jeans were unsettling.  Just imagine Great Uncle Joe and his wife, Betty, at an age old enough to have been Dave Grohl's childhood babysitter, dressing like Skanky Suzy and Douchebag Dirk over at your local high school.

Fortunately, they were few and far between, at least until the opening act started.

Nothing really interesting happened during that point.  I mean, sure, a band played, but let me assure you it was not that important.  If it was, I would have been able to distinguish between their songs (Seriously, and I thought all Ke$ha songs sounded the same).

So after the bonus band played (okay, they really weren't that bad, but I would not pay any more than 20 bucks to see them), I decided that I was thirsty.  So I begged my dad for five bucks (yes, I'm cheap) and turned around.

Right before me was a drink kiosk, with a huge stock of Coke bottles.  I couldn't believe my incredible luck!

Well, at least until I realized the incredibly long line leading away from it.  But it was okay, because I really wanted a Coke and I knew it would totally make up for it.

SENIORS SENIORS *clap clap clap clap clap*

You know, they put way too much emphasis on this whole "senior year" in high school.  They romanticize this year as some glorious, beautiful thing, but so far it hasn't been too promising.  I had been so looking forward to being completely in charge for once, but now that I sort of am, I find myself genuinely confused because I think I finally realized that, to be a leader, one must actually know what the hell one is doing.

I sometimes have issues with that.

Also, this whole senior attitude thing us seniors have? You know, the attitude where we think everything is just stupid?  Yeah, I think it's just stupid.  I hate it.

I'm like a senior within a senior.

Seniorception.

More internet memes.

And that senior slide thing?  Yeah, I'm desperately hoping that won't happen, but with IB Calculus, IB English, and the dastardly Drawing A looming over my head, keeping a B average seems like climbing Mt. Everest as a paraplegic.  Turns out it's pretty hard to push those wheelchairs up steep slopes. Who knew?

But no, the thing that concerned me the most was not the scary threat of an art class given to a senior who wishes to go to college for an art degree (shocking, I know).  Nor was it recieving our Calc book, which I'm pretty sure can be used as a better weapon than most firearms (seriously, you can crush boulders with this behemoth).  And it was not at all the fact that we have to read Huckleberry Finn ('N it's dern herd ta und-uh-st'nd errone wheyun dey awll tock laik diyuss).

No.  It was in Political Science.

Now, I am your typical uninformed American teenager, so by stereotype, I couldn't care less about politics.  However, I can stand mudslinging, truth-bending politicians much more easily than I can bear what I had to sit through.

It was horrible.  It was a Powerpoint presentation.

In Comic Sans.