Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Jeremy says they taste like chicken.

 Dear Vic,

You know how you're really stressed out, and your clavicles are all achey and probably filled with killer toxins (probably in the marrow or maybe just coating the underside of the bones with a scum of angst and black mold), and you keep looking up from the teetering stack of student papers hoping that the tallest stack is the finished one, but it's not, and it NEVER IS?

And how you foolishly assigned your seniors a group project to design their own utopia (It's impossible!  That's the point!), conveniently forgetting how last year at this time this exact same assignment caused you to lose all faith in the human race, you again wanted to cry a little when one group announced you would be free to marry your brother in their society, but a parking ticket would earn you a permanent trip to a big, barren plot of land called "The Dirt" which offered no food, water, toilets, or shelter, and that your slow, torturous death would be televised on HBO as a deterrent to other parking offenders?

And how your freshmen this year have the collective IQ of  cottage cheese?

But they don't care, because HAHAHA, Jeremy just bit the head off a cockroach!  For REALS!!!    ?   And how you think that Jeremy, who weighs less than your forearm but is six feet tall, could use the protein to help support his bulbous, mohawk-sporting head?

And you know how you keep thinking about all your nice friends in blogland (who are all writing genius posts about chimps, and naked dinosaur weddings, and bicycles, and prom sex and more), who don't even know that you have recently met a big man who wrestles grizzly bears and lives in a castle, because you have to give a final exam soon that you haven't actually created yet and there's been no time to post?

And how you also wish you could  tell them that your neighbor, the Gazing Ball Man, has been targeted by a roving band of  international lawn flamingo thieves, and there were police involved?

Well. Chin up, little buckaroo.  Ibuprofen is on sale and soon this will all end for another year.  In a few days there will be margaritas, and joyous singing of freedom-oriented songs, and a blogpost worthy of your patient friends.

Get back to work.


PS.  The cats have rolled your red pen under the couch again.

Thursday, May 06, 2010

Me and Sideshow Betty Will Be Shaping the Youth of Today. Also Dabbing them.

So, about that anal gel I mentioned last time.

Anal gel on the horizon.

Which, now that I think about it, is a terrifying mental picture no matter how you think about it, and I'd like to apologize for wherever your mind might have gone due to my irresponsible metaphors.

Anyway, it appears that soon it might be my responsibility as a teacher to apply anti-seizure gel to the rectal area of convulsing students, should the need arise, right there in my classroom. No medical license necessary!  According to our school nurse, the California legislature is thinking this would be a good idea instead of paying for school nurses and she says probably we should fight the power on this one.  Because otherwise I'll be dabbing gel willy-nilly on anuses in- between my lectures, and I get asked to prom as it is, so it's sending a mixed message I think.

Also she says I could be responsible for injecting students with insulin, but presumably not in the anus. It's a good thing I've been giving my cats antibiotics with a syringe lately, so I'm totally ready for this one, assuming I can grab a student gently by the scruff of the neck and then squirt the insulin directly down the back of his/her throat.  It's probably the same.

 I'm looking into buying a generator in case I need to administer electro-shock therapy maybe during lunch.  

Because I would enjoy electrocuting a few of my students, Nurse Ratchet style, at this point in the school year.  I used to think a gentle ether mist from the sprinkler heads would be fine, who doesn't like a little nap in the middle of the day, but at this point in the school year I'm all hostile, and if I can't nap at my desk, no one is napping.  Dammit.

Part of my hostility is because of the pop-eyed bi-polar woman they have assigned to my room to "help", which is boss-speak for we have nowhere else to put her.  She is now your problem.
She is amazing. For example, here is how my new sidekick has helped me so far:
  • Dropped into the splits at the front of the class. More than once.
  • Flipped off the class (I can do a backflip too! See look! Hand behind back, middle finger raised. Suckers!)
  • Told a dirty Michael Jackson joke during a test
  • Explained to students where the best liquor deals are (Walmart)
  • Announced to the room that she is bi-polar, but not medicated, because she likes to feel "energetic".
  • Announced to the class that, no, she hasn't read  Brave New World so they can't get any help from her, but she promises to read it as soon as she finishes the soft-porn book she is currently reading.  These were her words, Soft-core porn.  
  • Provided the name of her favorite soft-porn author, in case anyone wanted to check it out.
  • Scratched her left breast ( hand inside shirt), with gusto in front of a class of fascinated senior boys.
 I've tried to rein her in, really I have. If I had that electro-shock generator I could drop her easy, but as it stands she's running amuck.

I think it's also important to note that the woman is built exactly like Timer from the old Saturday morning cartoons.  (Remember him?  When my get-up-'n-go has got-up-and-went, I hanker' fer a hunk 'a cheese), only put a curly blond wig on him, and possibly some pants.

(For my younger friends, think apple-on-two-toothpicks, if the apple is wearing a curly blond wig.  You're welcome.)

I mention this, because it helps when you try to picture what it looks like when she does the splits.  There is some huffing and puffing involved, and the eyes go all stare-y, and then the full mass of her torso descends to the industrial carpet, ultimately obscuring all of her leg other than two tiny Croc-clad feet on either side.

I just can't compete with that at the end of the year.