Some people are mad about my last blog post because 1) it was crude and 2) I never came up with a way to remember how to spell mnemonic. Well sorry, some people, but 1) I am not ashamed of my Vulgar Images and Acronyms Brisk Learning Experience (VIABLE) test preparedness method. It's a winning technique and you are lucky I decided to share it with you at no charge, and 2) the word mnemonic is tough to wrastle with. 

The word wrastle is old English for wrestle, most famously used by Geoffrey Chaucer, the Father of English Literature, who wrote: Who wrastleth best naked, with oil enoint. I'm sorry if that is too crude for some people. If I were helping Margot and Greta study for an English Literature class, using the VIABLE method, and they had to memorize who wrote, "Who wrastleth best naked, with oil enoint," I would recommend: Oily Naked Author: Poet Geoffrey Chaucer.

My sister Julie just called me up to say that she's having a hard time spelling mnemonic, and she asked me to come up with a device to help her remember the word's letters in the correct order. "Why do you care how to spell it?" I barked. "Have you signed up to retake the SAT? You know what this reminds me of? This reminds me of the time you called me to say that you just tried to join the Army, but you couldn't, because you failed to meet the enlistment requirement that you must ship out to basic training prior to your 35th birthday!" Then I hung up on her.

But now, of course, I can't think of anything else but helping my sister with a device for mnemonic. So I'm sitting down right now to figure it out, which means that you people are getting in on the ground floor of this thing.

I know why Julie called me and not my brother or sisters for assistance on this. I used acronyms and other word play to help my kids prep for tests ever since they were in elementary school, and not only did they get good grades, they also loved the process. This is because it was the only time I encouraged them to use foul language. 

I've told you this before, but when I was young I traded on dirty jokes, bodily functions and swears. I learned these things quickly and with staying power. So I let the girls slip in off-color words and concepts to enhance their studying. For example, if a science test's study guide included The Properties of Metal (Malleable, Hard, Shiny, Conductive, Dense, Melting point, Corrosion), the best way to remember that would be: Mr. Henbock smokes crack during metal class. Bringing teachers into the equation is always a winning strategy.

During these pre-gaming sessions, Bo would invariably look up and ask, "Why don't you just have them learn the actual stuff?" 

"You're being silly," I'd say. "Now, Margot, what did we decide on the capital of Kenfucky? Are we going with Frankfart? Or is Fartfort more of a hook?" 

Now I'll share with you something Greta announced before a World History test that I can't believe hadn't occurred to me as a kid: "The capital of Thigh-land is Bang-Cock."

One of my most inspired knowledge cramming tactics was directed at Margot when, late one night, after reviewing for hours to ace an American History exam, she couldn't remember how many US Supreme Court justices there are. The other a-thousand study facts were jammed into their protective virtual wordplay envelopes. "It just won't go in!" she finally cried out. 

"Hold on. I'll be right back," I told her, and I went to my room to grab Jon Stewart's book called, America. When I returned, I looked at her and uttered the classic parental line, "Kiddo, this is gonna hurt you way more than it hurts me." Then I showed her this page:

When she looked up I asked her again, "How many justices are on the US Supreme Court?" 

"Nine," she wept. "There are nine."

I'll start by telling you that I adopted four cats earlier this morning, though at the time, I couldn't understand why. I never wanted cats at all until yesterday, and now look at me. Anyway, in the parking lot of the animal shelter, I assigned each cat a name, and then we all headed over to the grocery store to buy them something to eat. I was in the dairy aisle, reaching for a carton of milk when it hit me like a ton of non-clumping cat litter. 

We rushed home, the cats and I, and we pulled up that "waste milk?" commercial I've watched and talked about so often this week. We slowed it down to take it in carefully, frame by frame, and there it was. At around 5 seconds in, this image appeared -- and then it was gone:

"Okay here's what's happening!" I blurted to Blancmange, Guernsey, Aulait and Colostrum, "You guys drink milk. This is an ad trying to get people to adopt cats so that they'll buy more milk. It's a classic example of subliminal advertising."

I'm leery about advertisers incorporating subliminal directives into their commercials and promotions, because I'm easily triggered by these kinds of messages. While in high school, I got in big trouble for lying nude on the bleachers after "not seeing" this crafty, sexy lady in a photograph on a vending machine.

"Stop grooming yourselves and listen!" I implored the cats (it turns out that cats groom themselves for one-third of the time they are awake). "The Milk People are trying to increase sales by going beneath the threshold of our awareness to demonstrate other uses for their products. Let's see what else they've snuck into this thing." And sure enough, around the 10th second, this image popped up:

At the :15 mark:

At twenty seconds:

And finally, at twenty-five seconds:

Okay, this last hidden frame that shows Robert Redford washing Meryl Streep's hair is off the mark. He was actually using water, not milk. But no woman who's viewed this scene from "Out of Africa" ever really got over it. And who buys the most milk? Women. So, touché Milk Guys. Touché.

I'm using my blog today to blow the whistle on our nation's milk processors. Stop the tricks and stick to promoting milk's protein count honestly! Now I must go. Helga has drawn a bath for five.