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Can you pass the acid test?

You may think we're having fun tripping out on this test and making light fun? Just wait till you see who is behind this employment exam! This trip we've all embarked on is about to get oh so stranger and turn terribly weird.

Who created this entrance exam for government service? Who owns and runs the company and is newly raking in your tax dollars from Trump government contracts. The surprise is just too good to spoil.

I challenge you to read below and take a guess who created this. Click to reveal, but don't say I didn't warn you!



I Took the Test RFK Jr. Is Using to Determine Who Should Work at His Health Department

As an American, I decided to determine my own fitness for a role in RFK Jr.’s cabinet of horrors. It was a disquieting experience. The first 17 (17!) questions in the test are all pattern recognition, where you’re asked to slot a geometrical graphic into a row of three without breaking order. After that, you’re ushered to some good old-fashioned word association, and asked to determine, through multiple choice, the closest definitional relative of a particular article of speech. (Like, say, matching “envy” up with “jealousy.”)

Remember those standardized tests you took in middle school? Where everyone was trapped in the basketball gym for six hours on a Monday afternoon? It’s kinda like that, except with, you know, the fate of the entire American medical apparatus on the line.

Things get even weirder once you get to the latter half of the test, which, in form and function, is a MySpace–style personality quiz. I was asked to rank a series of attributes, from 1 to 5, on how they gel with my psychic makeup. And given how disparate and unattached those attributes were, this proved to be an impossible task. Do I “make people feel at ease” more than I “spend time reflecting on things”? Do I feel like I “neglect my duties” more than either of those strengths? What? What kind of question is that! The whole thing reeked of neo-psychological quackery, in the Gladwell tradition, where the vast gradient of human experience can be neatly organized into, like, three smooth categories.

And yet, after that first round of personality disentangling, RFK’s assessment gets much more specific, and, somehow, even more bizarre. The quiz presented me with a lengthy list of strange personal insecurities, and asked me to highlight the five that I identified with most. That sounds straightforward enough, but the available choices coalesced into a majorly unwell person. One reads, “I tend to have unstable and intense personal relationships, where I alternate between extremes of idealizing and devaluing another.”

Another adds, “I don’t have that much interest in having sexual experiences with another person,” which I choose to interpret as a smart bit of incel coalition management. Speaking for myself, I was self-aware enough to check off “I require excessive admiration,” but I made sure to leave out “I don’t feel much empathy for others” to ensure that the next regime doesn’t peg me as a sociopath. (This is also where the question about “having clairvoyance” surfaces, but honestly, compared to the other options, it might be among the least distressing of the bunch.)

And just like that, the test was over. I was presented no score or evaluation, just a terse “thank you” and the end of the line. I suppose I must live with the fact that the government now possesses a record of my darkest inclinations—an RFK-ified survey of my morality—but I don’t get the sense that he’s gotten any better sense of whether I’m a fit or not for Health and Human Services. Maybe that shouldn’t be too surprising, because when journalist Timothy Burke dug into who, exactly, is responsible for this deeply strange audit, he learned that the publishing company is called ExamCorp. ExamCorp’s president? None other than "Mr. It All Makes Sense Now!"

Last edited by Johnny_Rotten (2024-12-07 23:19:19)