|
| MATH IS FUN!!!!MATH CAN BE FUN WOOT!
"To prove once and for all that math can be fun, we present: Wherein it
is related how that paragon of womanly virtue, young Polly Nomial (our
heroine) is accosted by that notorious villain Curly Pi, and factored
(oh horror!!!)
Once upon a time (1/t) pretty little Polly
Nomial was strolling across a field of vectors when she came to the
boundary of a singularly large matrix. Now Polly was convergent, and
her mother had made it an absolute condition that she must never enter
such an array without her brackets on. Polly, however, who had changed
her variables that morning and was feeling particularly badly behaved,
ignored this condition on the basis that it was insufficient and made
her way in amongst the complex elements. Rows and columns closed in on
her from all sides. Tangents approached her surface. She became tensor
and tensor. Quite suddendly two branches of a hyperbola touched her at
a single point. She oscillated violently, lost all sense of directrix,
and went completely divergent. As she tripped over a square root that
was protruding from the erf and plunged headlong down a steep gradient.
When she rounded off once more, she found herself inverted, apparently
alone, in a non-Euclidean space.
She was being watched,
however. That smooth operator, Curly Pi, was lurking inner product. As
his eyes devoured her curvilinear coordinates, a singular expression
crossed his face. He wondered, "Was she still convergent?" He decided
to integrate properly at once.
Hearing a common fraction behind
her, Polly rotated and saw Curly Pi approaching with his power series
extrapolated. She could see at once by his degenerate conic and
dissipative that he was bent on no good.
"Arcsinh," she gasped.
"Ho, ho," he said, "What a symmetric little asymptote you have I can see you angles have lots of secs."
"Oh sir," she protested, "keep away from me I haven't got my brackets on."
"Calm yourself, my dear," said our suave operator, "your fears are purely imaginary."
"I, I," she thought, "perhaps he's not normal but homologous."
"What order are you?" the brute demanded.
"Seventeen," replied Polly.
Curly leered "I suppose you've never been operated on."
"Of course not," Polly replied quite properly, "I'm absolutely convergent."
"Come, come," said Curly, "let's off to a decimal place I know and I'll take you to the limit."
"Never," gasped Polly.
"Abscissa," he swore, using the vilest oath he knew. His patience was
gone. Coshing her over the coefficient with a log until she was
powerless, Curly removed her discontinuities. He stared at her
significant places, and began smoothing out her points of inflection.
Poor Polly. The algorithmic method was now her only hope. She felt his
digits tending to her asymptotic limit. Her convergence would soon be
gone forever.
There was no mercy, for Curly was a heavyside
operator. Curly's radius squared itself; Polly's loci quivered. He
integrated by parts. He integrated by partial fractions. After he
cofactored, he performed runge - kutta on her. The complex beast even
went all the way around and did a contour integration. What an
indignity - to be multiply connected on her first integration. Curly
went on operating until he completely satisfied her hypothesis, then he
exponentiated and became completely orthogonal.
When Polly got
home that night, her mother noticed that she was no longer piecewise
continuous, but had been truncated in several places But it was to late
to differentiate now. As the months went by, Polly's denominator
increased monotonically. Finally she went to L'Hopital and generated a
small but pathological function which left surds all over the place and
drove Polly to deviation.
The moral of our sad story is
this: "If you want to keep your expressions convergent, never allow
them a single degree of freedom.""
| | |
| So today I woke up at 730 AM to go to physics lab. I waited for about 10 minutes and that's when a physics lab related personelle showed up and told a few of us who waited that there was no physics lab today. This is the 2nd time this happened to me and physics lab. The first time being last week's thursday. Why is it that I gave up many hours of sleep for a dumb class that didnt even meet? Ok. And then I went to chem lab. In chem lab, I started a fire when I was suppose to boil water in my volumetric flask. The rubber tubing I used to connect my bunsen burner and the gas outlet was too heavy. The weight knocked the bunsen burner over and burned a stack of paper towels sitting next to me. Had the bunsen burner fell the opposite way, my notebooks would have burned (yay for not happening). Ok. So I had a piece of paper towel in my hand while the bunsen burner tipped over. I quick wittedly turned off the gas and tried to cover the flame with my paper towel. Miraculously, it didnt work. So now the fire got bigger and this Indian just happened to pass by and put the fire out with a plastic container cover. O.o When it's time to go back to my apartment, I insisted to my friend that we take the bus. He finally agreed and we ended up taking 40 minutes to go back to our apartments when it would have taken 20 had we walked. We came back and he realized he had class where we left in another 40 minutes (haha). Later in the night around 10 10 I remembered I had this class from 8 to 10. -_-
And now I'm wasting time on xanga when I should be studying for my two quizzes tomorrow.
(this is a genuine xanga post by me (Simon), unlike the last deleted entry).
| | |
| Today I was thinking..
ok. I lied. I didn't think.
| | |
| ANGER MANAGEMENT
When you occasionally have a really bad day, and you
just need to take it out on someone, don't take it out
on someone you know, take it out on someone you don't
know.
I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call
I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed
it. A man answered, saying "Hello." I politely said,
"This is Chris. Could I please speak with Robyn
Carter?"
Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the
right f**in number!" and the phone was slammed down on
me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude.
When I tracked down Robyn's correct number to call her,
I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two
digits.
After hanging up with her, I decided to call the
'wrong' number again. When he same guy answered the
phone, I yelled "You're an arsehole!"
and hung up. I wrote his number down with the word
'arsehole' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer.
Every couple of weeks, when I was paying
bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and
yell, "You're an arsehole!" It always cheered me up.
When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic
'arsehole' calling would have to stop. So, I called his
number and said, "Hi, this is
John Smith from the Telstra. I'm calling to see if
you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?" He yelled
"NO!" and slammed down the phone.
I quickly called him back and said, "That's because
you're an arsehole!"
One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into
a parking spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and
pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit
the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that
spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale"
sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number. A
couple of days later, right after calling the first
arsehole (I had his number on speed dial,) I thought
that I'd better call the BMW arsehole, too. I said, "Is
this the man with the black BMW for sale?"
He said, "Yes, it is."
I asked, "Can you tell me where I can see it?"
He said, "Yes, I live at 34 Mowbray Blvd, in Vaucluse.
it's a yellow house, and the car's parked right out in
front."
I asked, "What's your name?"
He said, "My name is Don Hansen,"
I asked, "When's a good time to catch you, Don?"
He said, "I'm home every evening after five."
I said, "Listen, Don, can I tell you something?"
He said, "Yes?"
I said, "Don, you're an arsehole!"
Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial,
too. Now, when I had a problem, I had two arseholes to
call.
Then I came up with an idea. I called Arsehole #1.
He said, "Hello."
I said, "You're an arsehole!" (But I didn't hang up.)
He asked, "Are you still there?"
I said, "Yeah," He screamed, "Stop calling me,"
I said, "Make me,"
He asked, "Who are you?"
I said, "My name is Don Hansen."
He said, "Yeah? Where do you live?"
I said, "Arsehole, I live at 34 Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse,
a yellow house, with my black Beamer parked in front."
He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don. And you had
better start saying your prayers."
I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, arsehole," and
hung up.
Then I called Arsehole #2.
He said, "Hello?"
I said, "Hello, arsehole,"
He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..." he said,
"You'll what?"
He exclaimed, "I'll kick your arse,"
I answered, "Well, arsehole, here's your chance. I'm
coming over right now." Then I hung up and immediately
called the police, saying that I lived
at 34 Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse, and that I was on my way
over there to kill my gay lover. Then I called Channel
9 News about the gang war going down in
Mowbray Blvd, Vaucluse. I quickly got into my car and
headed over to Mowbray.
I got there just in time to watch two arseholes beating
the crap out of each other in front of six cop cars, an
overhead police helicopter and a news crew.
Just incase you need it  | | |
|
