I once took one of those personality inventories as part of a seminar. Filled out page after page of forms and compared the answers with the chart that told you who or what you were. It nailed me to a 'T.'
So now what?
I just told it that, in different words.
I recognized myself.
So now what?
I was still the same doofus after I took the test, or provided the inventory, as I was before.
What was I supposed to do now?
Change my spots like the proverbial leopard who can't change his?
Was I going to go from me to, say Donald Trump because I'd like a yacht too?
Why not shoot for the top? Bill Gates.
But do I really want to be D. Trump or B. Gates?
Cripes, I have enuf trouble being me to want to be them.
Suppose I tried to be B. Gates and didn't get to be head of Microsoft, what then. Wouldn't I feel bad?
Reminds me of when I was a kid and admired guys on the basketball team who could really score baskets. Wouldn't it be neat to be like them.
Took me awhile to realize I didn't want to be like them, and it wasn't going to happen anyway.
Seemed to me that these personality inventories might be useful for pigeon-holing o t h e r people so you can know what to do to, or sometimes, for, them. Like you go to this jail and you, over there, go to some other jail, while you, from StatNisland, get electronic home monitoring.
Great cocktail party stuff.
Cops, incidentally, have their own personality inventory which determines who gets arrested and who gets let go after a chance or not-so-chance encounter.
It's called the Assh*le test.
If you qualify, in you go.
It depends largely on how you look, act and what you say when the Boys in Blue arrive on scene.
Street justice, is what it's called. Justice at the end of a nightstick.
It ain't poetic justice, and not even court justice, but it's the law of the jungle, our jungle.
P.S. Some cop lore:
They have an I.Q. test to become a cop. If you fail it, you're in.
Street justice Rule 2: After a fight, the loser goes to the hospital, the winner goes to jail.
Being a cop is no job for a grown man.
The latter two come from one of New York's Finest who writes about the business for Da New Yorker Mag. Can't think of his name, but he's great.
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