A proper testable question should be about this causal connection, and should clearly include a dependent and independent variable.
The question should also be generally applicable, so that answering the question has some relevance to real world problems (the author wrote "real word problems." Also, the voice reading the author's words verbatim has that voice that sounds like a butchy Shelley Long. The kind of voice that always appears, or app-eyes, or whatever, as the voice of the ship's computer, kindly reminding the crew that they have 2 minutes to complete ship abandoning as the strangely un-turn-offable self-destruct routine was programmed by computer geeks driven to a life of murderous, jealousy-driven, and way passive-aggressive hate towards dick astronauts, having spent ten years writing code for lime-light stealing jocks.
Not that Shelley Long Voice would read that, even if it were in the script. Because it's not 'proper,' which is really capital P Proper, as it's being used to refer to the code of behavior adopted by sheltered home-school girls finding themselves in public and needing to come across as worldly and hip. The voice of a lifetime evangelical appealing to the youth by wearing a backwards baseball cap of the local sports team's logo to compliment his hideous, homemade-looking suit and waxen, otherworldly visage. Only female. and homemade meaning badly-made, not tailor-made. The kind of suit a pair of serial killer pants would wear, a la Ed Gein and old women.
Not a 'science class' voice, in other words. The voice of a woman that will do her level best to raise her very own Icy and Asexual Housewife Barbie and ends up with a reality TV star releasing a sex tape three years after the last guy stopped caring in a desperate attempt to find a way to pay for her many bad decisions.
This is a Voice of diet ice water, plastic-jug vodka and diet pills. A Voice that lives in a room with too much white porcelain and gold-colored plumbing, the blatant subconscious representation of the Voice's own self-image totally lost on the Voice. A room that puts visitors in mind of cats, although no cats are present, until the visitors realize that this is what rich women do instead of buying dozens of stray cats and collecting creepy dolls: This is a hopelessly broken person wanting the world to look at them and going about it all wrong. Only with sound, in this case.
A 'science voice' being, of course, an elderly transatlantic accent that wafts into the brain like single malt scotch and pipe smoke and high-maintenance leather and you briefly wonder if this is what Santa Claus smells like. In your ear.
Wait, that went from confusing to gross. If smell was sound, I mean. Santa Claus smells like this sounds. Only Santa Claus is the private library of a literature professor. And it's a voice. Fuck you, Language, I know what I mean.
Note to self, when all this science shit pays off: Totally splice John Cleese and Morgan Freeman into a genetic patchwork man. Remember, genetically modified abominations against God and science only turn into monsters when they reach puberty in the movies. And the books. And the nightmares. And probably in reality. Don't remember this after all. Train him to be a voice actor from birth. Have him watch Kenneth Branagh movies and then play Resident Evil. Pimp him out to AAA game studios, pointing out that if this dude had done NIER that shit would have gone from sleeper cult hit to Instant Nobel Prize for Electronic Amusements. Americans will want to buy JRPGs and care about story and character again. Good video games will be saved.
Years later turn back to the bottle in a desperate attempt to escape the guilt of knowing your livelihood comes at the expense of the very people you sought to liberate in the form of on-disc dlc, monthly service fees, micro transactions and invasive, mandatory security software downloads that can track a fucking pipe bomb three blocks from your house and reports sub-code plumbing to the authorities, yet perversely and to the shock of nobody makes piracy more appealing. Realize Johnmorgan Freecleese is kinda your kid and kinda your boy kid and kinda you've been psychologically abusing him his entire life, and kinda you're prostituting him out to rich, white men that represent everything you hate about capitalism. Realize you've made the joke sad and gross. Get back to science class.
End Note to Self).