Raithe

Why Education Is About To Reach A Crisis Of Epic Proportions (forbes.com)

Four gunmen are standing in the woods, recently deputized by the new regime in the budding of a civil war. Before them, a gagged and hooded prisoner on their knees, sobbing at the edge of an empty grave. Behind them, nine already filled. The first looks nervous. "I've been counting the prisoners since we hooded them and loaded onto the truck. This must be Dr. Aaron. This man donated bone marrow to save my mother, if we kill him my parents will never look me in the eyes again." The next says "Dr Aaron? This man's son was my best man. If we kill him, his son will hate me to my core, and doubtless he will use his equally brilliant mind to find a way to take terrible revenge on my wife, maybe even my children. Jesus, he even knows where I hide my key." The third says "Dr Aaron called my little brother down from a rooftop ledge, and has treated his anxiety ever since. Wrote us a letter every year. If we kill him, my brother will walk off that edge once and for all, my sister will starve herself with grief and my father will hang himself in shame for what I've done. He treated all of them." The fourth checks his clipboard, brow furrowed. "Oh. ****. Guess I should have mentioned I've been bringing them out alphabetically.

Three men have to share a hotel room in Chelyabinsk during a congress. Naturally, in the evening, they start drinking. One thing leads to another, and they find themselves telling political jokes. Concerns that any of the others may be KGB informants or that the room may be bugged are readily dissolved in alcohol. Everybody is having a great time. One is tired and really feels like sleeping; he decides to pull a joke on the others. He excuses himself, runs to the lobby and gives the receptionist a few bills. “Please send someone to my room with a bottle of vodka, some rye bread and salt in ten minutes.” He then returns to the room. After a few minutes, he notes to the others that stocks of refreshments are running low. “Not to worry, comrades! I have good contacts.” He leans over towards the potted plant in the corner, grabs it and loudly says, as if speaking into a microphone: “Comrades at the listening post, this is lieutenant Dyatlov! We urgently require a bottle of vodka, some rye bread and salt to our room! Make haste!” The others laugh their asses off – until a minute later, there’s a knock on the door and vodka, salt and rye bread is served. You could hear a pin drop. Our man goes to sleep, enjoying the quiet. When he wakes up in the morning, the others are gone. A note is left on the table. “Comrade! A couple of your jokes yesterday would easily get you to Siberia! (The one about Stalin’s maid, while hysterical, could get you in front of a firing squad!!!) However, we liked that room service joke so much, we’ll let you off the hook this time. Sincerely, KGB.”

Trying to get back into the job hunt with the New Year, and that half prep for dad starting radiotherapy next week. Still puttering stuff around for Mandalorian Mercs application in the future. Figuring out how to use Blender to get what I want on those STL designs. On the real world side of things, I've picked up a pair of scrubs that I'm going to turn into the flight suit. Spent half an hour starting to rip seams out of one set so I've got spare material that matches when I get to work on the main set to be worn.

For a dose of the political humour...

"Students shouldn't go out into life without the ability to communicate, and that's because your success in life will be determined largely by your ability to speak, your ability to write, and the quality of your ideas. In that order."