I hope that anyone reading these words will first read the preceding three stories about the California "missile mystery."
Later today, I intend to post an unusual piece about Flight 9268, so y'all come back soon, y'hear?
. And this
I think Carson is telling the truth about this one. Why? Because something similar happened to me when I took Psych 101, a long, long time ago. (How long? Don't ask. When I was born, men still wore tri-corner hats.)
Circumstances forced me to miss the final, and I had reconciled myself to the not-unpleasant prospect of taking the class again. Fortunately, a number of other students were in the same boat, and we were allowed to take a make-up final.
We were left completely on our own in a room not normally used as a classroom. No professor. No assistants. Nobody checked out bags: We were allowed to bring in our textbooks.
Now, I had studied for this test. The subject matter was interesting. I probably would have fared well even if I had done everything on the straight-and-narrow.
But...well, you know how it is when the right answer is almost
within reach of your memory? "On the tip of your tongue," as it were? Almost
remembering something is far worse than complete ignorance. One of the early questions was of this nature, and it was absolutely infuriating. I had
to know, whatever the consequences.
So I checked that answer in the textbook. Other students around that table saw me sneak a peek, and they smiled conspiratorially. It occurred to me that there were probably
ringers in that room, reporting on miscreants. Everything that happened in this room was a test of our basic
But: In for a penny, in for a pound.
Very soon, I was ostentatiously double-checking every answer, even the easiest ones about which there was no doubt. If this "make-up exam" was itself a psychological test, why not confirm the most cynical instincts of the test's designer? If I had sported a mustache in those days, I would have twirled it like the villain in an old stage melodrama.
At the end of this exercise, I fully expected the clamp of an official hand on the shoulder, telling me that my days at that college were over. Having chosen the path of evil, I now had no choice but to paint my face white, move to Gotham City and try to kill Batman.
Nope. Got an A. Not just on the test: I got an A in the class
That grade bewildered me. Even if I had gotten an honest A on the final, I deserved a solid B in the class. (The final exam constituted only about thirty percent of the grade.) Perhaps those who had unwittingly participated in that "honesty test" received an A regardless of actual achievement.
(Cheating on a test is very naughty, but so is experimentation on the unwitting. So it all evens out. That's my argument and I'm sticking to it.)
At any rate, Ben Carson's tale has the ring of reality for me. This
tale. Not that other crap.
I'd like to take that test again, this time doing everything as though Jiminy Cricket were on my shoulder. Just to prove I can
. Sigmund Freud: He was the guy with the beard, right?