Daily Diatribes

Yesterday I started searching hard and heavy for a sub job. I haven’t been finding many jobs lately, but in all honesty, I haven’t been looking very hard either. The whole process is a pain. I log into a web site to see if teachers have posted their absences. I am competing with hundreds of other subs for the same openings. It’s a lot like buying a lottery ticket; sometimes you hit the jackpot and sometimes you just get jack.

Yesterday there was a plethora of absences posted. The first one was for an instructional support sub at the high school. No way was I accepting that one; dealing with high schoolers is hard enough and I can only imagine how much harder it is to deal with ones who are challenged. Then a couple of openings at the middle school appeared, but they were both for PE teachers.

Now I love subbing at the middle school. I am like a freakin’ celebrity there. Yesterday I volunteered in the middle school office and I stopped by the lunchroom after I was done to say hello to MA. It took me five minutes to work my way across to her table because people kept jumping up to hug me and high five me. They were crowding around me, just hoping to touch the hem of my garment. I would be lying if I didn’t say it was ego boosting!! I’m a rock star at the middle school!!

But ME teaching PE?? I stared at the listing and thought it through. I would start the class period by taking roll. I am very good at taking roll; dare I say I have superior attendance taking skills?? From there, though, it could only go downhill. Physical fitness is not my forte. Walking upright is an accomplishment for me and takes all my skill and concentration. There’s not much left over for sports.

I envision my celebrity status slipping the first time I tried running in front of them. I am not built to run; I am built to lounge around and eat bon bons and pity those lesser mortals who feel it necessary to engage in running type activities. When I run it’s just very sad and pathetic. I can’t quite get my feet all the way off the ground, and I have bad knees so I do this kind of shuffling thing. Not at all cool. Add to that my rather formidable bosoms which become significantly mobile (floppy) when I run and the Loser Equation is complete. Probably, by the end of the period, the students would tie me up with jumpropes and pelt me with those red kickballs.

I stared at the screen awhile. Droolers or Sweaters??? The Lady or the Tiger?? The Pit or the Pendulum?? It seemed I was destined to lose no matter which one I chose. So I logged out of the system and went back to playing Pogo.

Later that night, before I went to bed, I checked the system one more time. To my delight, there were several postings! The instructional support one was still there, naturally, but several regular jobs were also posted, including one at the middle school. I almost took it, but it was only for half a day. I went for the high school one instead. It was for a history teacher and I have a history degree, so it seemed like a good fit.

So here I am today and I must say, it’s turning out to be a pretty cush job. For starters, Thursday is a day of block scheduling, so I only have three academic classes. Plus, the teacher is also a coach, so he has a two hour planning period!! Once this class leaves, I am done until 12:30!! I can eat lunch whenever I want. I can read the paper! I can blog!! And I have already established “good sub” status here by giving them the answers to the quiz they were supposed to be taking. Hey, he didn’t say I couldn’t discuss the quiz with them, using the answer key to focus the discussion!!

I have been debating lately whether I want to go back to school and get my teaching degree. I really like kids and I am good with them. It’s rare for a child not to respond to me on some level, even if it’s just disbelief that an adult could possibly be so stupid!! However, do I really want to mess up the good gig? Getting paid to hang out and be cool and showing up only when I want to? I’m going to have to continue pondering that question indefinitely!!

My brain has been in underdrive lately. I can’t seem to pull together anything for a decent post so I just haven’t posted. What I really need to do is just sit here and type randomly and hope it all gels into a post. They say a monkey can reproduce the works of Shakespeare if given enough time and paper. And I’m sort of like a monkey only with slightly better teeth and less fleas.

Speaking of monkeys, Nancy and I were fascinated by the recent chimp attack. I know it was horrible and tragic, but admit you laughed a little. You know you snickered just a bit every time they showed the owner sobbing and saying “I dropped a Xanax in his soda but he didn’t drink it…” That’s the problem right there. She should have taken the Xanax herself and gotten a new roommate, one that didn’t wear diapers!! Apparently the chimp went nuts when the victim waved a stuffed animal in his face. Who even knew that Tickle Me Elmo could provoke such a vicious response? Granted, it definitely ranks in the top Five most annoying toys of all time, but I have to say Elmo has never irritated me to the point of ripping off someone’s face. Barney, however, is another story. I could see me doing a Hannibal Lector if you waved Barney in my face.

I am making no attempt at cohesion here. This is a bunch of randomness designed to get me out of my funk and back into blogging. So here is the wrap up to the sloppy joe story:
I browned the nine pounds of ground meat. I have to admit, it was fairly high quality meat considering it was not fresh. Course for the price I paid it should have been high quality; it should have been freakin’ ground gold! Anyway, I only had to make eight pounds, but incredibly generous as I am, I rounded it up to nine. Which meant that when I browned it all and added the sauce it was ever so slightly too much for the foil pan I had purchased. It came right up to the top of the container, but when I placed the clear, generously sized domed lid on top, I figured I’d be ok. I did have the foresight to put a cookie sheet under it the pan. Do you see where this is going?

I had to deliver the meat, so I changed into a clean sweater and did my hair and looked really cute. I picked up the cookie sheet and the sloppy joe mix started oozing out of the container. And of course the container shifted and smacked me in the boob, leaving a lovely, greasy, orangish/red splotch on my clean sweater. I cursed a lot and started toward the stairs, arms rigid, trying to keep the sloppy joe meat from moving around. As I navigated the basement stairs, I had a vivid image of me tumbling down them, scalding hot sloppy joe meat flying everywhere, and me landing in a broken heap on the floor. The paramedics would be unable to determine where the sloppy joe meat ended and the brain matter began. Death by Manwich, coming to a theater near you! Anyway, I got the pan into the car without harming myself and of course it shifted again and slopped onto my carpet continuously during the twenty minute ride. Screw the homeless; next time I’ll order them a pizza!!

Friday night I experienced a first rate, white knuckle thrill ride. Disney World just wishes they could come up with something this terrifying!! It’s called riding with Napoleon to downtown Birmingham on a Friday night and letting him park the car in a parking deck. Really hard core stuff!! My mother in law has been in the hospital and we were going to visit her. By the time we got to the hospital, I was ready to have myself admitted. Hard to say what was scarier; him nearly clipping the bumper of a parked car or him merging across three lanes of traffic.

It got even more interesting when we left. There were two cars ahead of us at the parking lot exit. There is a booth there and you insert your prepaid ticket or cash and then the little arm thing raises and you’re free to go. There was a lady out of her car and she was fidgeting with the thing and we could see her muttering and fussing. Finally, she turned and walked to the car in front of us; I told Napoleon to roll down the window so we could hear what the problem was.

“Do you have change for a twenty?” she asked the driver in of those really irritating, nasally/whiny voices. “That machine doesn’t take credit cards!!” A little bit about the parking deck: there is a machine by every elevator in the hospital that will validate your ticket for you and it takes credit cards. How she managed to miss all of these machines is a mystery to me. The driver shook his head and she started for us. I grabbed three dollars out of my wallet, handed it to Napoleon and said “just give her this.”
She took the money and said “I didn’t know the machine didn’t take credit cards.”
“You have to validate it inside,” I told her.
“Well I didn’t know that,” she said huffily, and walked away clutching my money WITHOUT EVEN THANKING ME!! So that was my freakin’ random act of kindness for the day. She then proceeded to stand there and repeatedly shove the money into the machine. “put the car in park son,” I said wearily. I knew we would be there for awhile. We did finally manage to get out of the parking lot and made it home safely.

So that’s what I’ve been dealing with in the last few days: teenage driving and crazy parking lot people. I’m glad we didn’t have a Tickle Me Elmo in the car; it might have sent her into a psychotic rage!! Hopefully I have busted through the bloggers block. Happy Wednesday!!

I have two things to accomplish today. One is to tackle the veritable mountain of laundry that has accumulated on my dining room table. The other is to prepare food to feed the homeless. Not a bad list for a Thursday.

The laundry situation has become urgent. We are reaching Def Con Red status or whatever the hell the government calls it. I would not be at all shocked or surprised to discover that those Google Earth people had zoomed in and pinpointed my dining room table as the current location of Osama bin Laden. He could totally be under there, sending out his video messages and I would never know. That’s how high the mountain is.

I hate doing laundry. It ranks right at the bottom of my chore list with vacuuming. I know people who LOVE doing laundry but I loathe it because there is no resolution to it. If I clean a bathroom, it generally stays clean for at least a week. I can visit it occasionally and revel in the cleanness of it, feeling a glow of pride in a job well done. But laundry is a cheat. I can wash every scrap of dirty clothing but it’s still not done. Because as I’m frantically washing, in the back of mind is the knowledge that the clothes I’m wearing are getting dirty as I wash the other clothes. At the end of the day, there are going to be five sets of dirty clothes to wash. Plus towels and gym clothes and whatever else the people in my house can get dirty during the course of an average day. The laundry basket is NEVER empty. And that thought is always with me as I slavishly wash, dry and fold all the stupid clothes. They’re just gonna get dirty again. Why am I bothering???

And don’t even get me started on the socks. As soon as I buy new socks, one sock mysteriously disappears, never to be heard from again. So I have this ginormous basket of unmatched socks that I can’t bring myself to throw away. Because as soon as I throw a sock away, the other one pops out gleefully and screams “GOTCHA”!!! I know people are losing their homes and jobs, but really, my sock problem is pretty important too. I should get a bailout! Or at least a National Guard unit to help me sort socks. Or a FEMA trailer? I’m easy.

Once I have decimated the laundry, I have to cook for the homeless. The youth group at our church is sponsoring a meal tomorrow night. When the email first came out asking for food donations, I sat back and waited. The gallons of tea, bags of buns and potato chips, and paper products went quickly. Then there was silence; no one was jumping up and down to donate the 16 pounds of sloppy joes. I waited and waited and finally I replied and offered to bring half the meat. What kills me is that most of the parishioners live in very affluent suburbs. But affluent and generous don’t always jive. So me, redneck county girl that I am, I said yes. I figure that’s worth a plenary indulgence or two!!

Last night I went to the Winn Dixie to buy the ground beef. They were having a sale: $1.99 a pound. I don’t normally buy ground beef but I figured the homeless weren’t going to be too choosy, right? Only when I got there, they only had two small packages left and the butcher was already gone. I wandered around for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do. The ground chuck was $3.49 a pound and I wouldn’t buy it at that price for my own family. Then I saw some tubes of ground chuck stuff and a lightbulb pinged. I have never bought ground meat in a tube before because I am a snob and I prefer fresh meat but the homeless were bound to be grateful for whatever I brought them, right? There was no price listed, but I reckoned tube meat had to be cheaper than fresh meat. So I grabbed three of the tubes, which were three pounds each. I only had to bring 8 pounds, so I was giving the homeless a bonus pound!!

Well, when I got to the register, the freakin’ things rang up at $10.47 apiece which, when divided by three comes out to….$3.49 per pound!! Dammit. I debated while the cashier rang up the rest of my groceries. Should I tell her “um, hey, that meat is too expensive…I’m feeding the homeless and I didn’t mean to spend that much….” Wow, how Christian does THAT sound?? I was already running late and I knew by the time she figured out how to void the transaction and I went back to buy more meat, it would be midnight. So I kept my mouth shut and just bought the damn THIRTY DOLLARS worth of ground chuck. Plus the sloppy joe sauce….don’t forget that!! I figure I’m about fifty dollars in with the homeless now. They better be damn thankful!!

So here’s the status report: I have caught up on my blog reading and left comments everywhere. The laundry level on the table has decreased somewhat. I have a giant zit on my chin that is roughly the size of Montana….sorry, just thought y’all might want to know that. And I have to brown nine pounds of ground chuck before 1 p.m. When will I ever learn to say No??? Well, hope you all have a wonderful day….I have to go and give Osama his morning waterboarding!!!

I woke up at 3:30 this morning because Hugo was practicing his routine for the upcoming Snoring Olympics. At least that’s what it sounded like to me. “Snore Snore Snore Snort Gasp Snort Snore…” If he were being judged, he would have scored a perfect Ten. I knew better than to try and roll him over on his side to reduce the snoring; this sometimes results in him taking a swing at me. In court, if the judge was male, I doubt the domestic violence charge would stick. If you try and roll your snoring husband over in the middle of the night, you are taking your life in your own hands.

Grumbling under my breath, I instead got up and headed for the couch. The couch and I are old friends for precisely this reason. I threw my pillow down, grabbed a blanket and worked my way into a comfortable spot. I was just drifting back to sleep when a voice spoke right next to my head: “MOM ARE YOU OK???” I reared up and beheld MA staring down at me in concern.

“Wha…Yes….I’m fine,” I gabbled. “Daddy is snoring….go to bed.”
“Ok,” she said and then headed into the kitchen instead. I dove back under my pillow and re-situated myself. I was just drifting off again when the pillow lifted and MA stage whispered “GOOD NIGHT MOM.” I either murmured a nasty threat about dismembering her or maybe good night, I don’t remember now. What I do remember is that I was now WIDE AWAKE!

I rolled over immediately, trying to recapture the drowse, but it was too late. Between the snoring and the conversation, I was awake. I lay there, attempting to force sleep by pulling out my handy dandy sleep inducing scenarios….I am on a desert island….absolutely no one else is there….I’m all alone….I can sleep as much as I want….and don’t forget you have to run by the store tomorrow to pick up….AUUUGGHHHH!!!! No stores on a desert island!! Try again!! Of course, the harder I tried, the awaker I became.

Finally, eventually, I managed to drift off again. Only to be reawakened by the sound of Hugo letting the dogs out. We have this stupid alarm on our stupid doors and every time one opens this stupid voice bellows out that the door is open. Very helpful in the event of an actual home invasion, but not so nice when one is trying to sleep. And Hugo followed the voice with his own bellow “are you going to sleep all day?”

I looked at him blearily and said “what time is it?”
“It’s 6:15,” he said. “Don’t you have to pick what’s her face up at 8:30?”
“Yes, at EIGHT THIRTY!” I said rather forcefully. “TWO HOURS FROM NOW!!” I picked up my pillow and stomped back into the bedroom and burrowed under the covers. And thought about what had just transpired. There were two issues at play. One, it drives Hugo crazy when he has to get up and everyone else can sleep. Personally, I could care less. Sucks to be the breadwinner buddy!! He’s the one who chose to pursue that advanced degree causing his earning power to far exceed the minimum wage I can command with my lack of marketable skills. He’s the doctor, so he gets to go to work on President’s Day while I get to lounge around in bed. Oh well, the history degree gets the extra Z’s!!

But on a more subtle, marital level, it was about sex. As in “I’m awake, I’m breathing, and we have twenty minutes before my brother gets here; what are you waiting for???” Any odd moment, when no one else is around, we should be cavorting in the bedroom. We’ve been married for seventeen years and have been cavorting for over twenty one. Frankly, the novelty has worn off but it’s always new and exciting for him. I guess I should be honored that after this amount of time, three children and the ENORMOUS amount of weight I’ve gained, he still wants to frolic. But it’s hard to feel so honored at 6:15 in the morning after he’s kept me up half the night with his damn snoring!! I’m glad he feels refreshed, and he loves me, but I need a nap way more than a tumble!! So I drifted back to sleep, leaving him to stomp around and mutter.

Now I have to go and wake up MA because we have to go pick up What’s her face and head out to girl scout camp. I am not going to be operating the heavy equipment today because I would probably fall asleep and saw down a girl scout instead of a tree!! But it would make a great headline!

My daughter will be confirmed in the Catholic Church next month. This is a huge milestone in her path to adulthood. It means she is freely choosing to become a full member of the Catholic church. It also means she has to buy a new dress. For some folks, this might not be a big deal. Perhaps the 13 year old girl in your life is perfectly happy to wear whatever delightful frock you choose for her.

And then there is my child. She is a beautiful girl. I know we all think that about our daughters, but mine is certainly very attractive. And her figure is a clothing designers dream. Anything she puts on looks like it was made just for her. The fashion world is her oyster so why does she gravitate towards the Hannah the Hooker line? Yesterday we went to the mall and we walked for two hours! We went into every single store that sold anything remotely dressy. And without fail, every time, she gravitated toward the most inappropriate thing in the store and begged me for it.

She and I did not share a unified ideal of the perfect dress. I pictured something demure and feminine, befitting a bride of Christ. She pictured something racy and glamorous, perfect for an acceptance speech at the MTV video awards. The middle ground between the visions was non existent. At Jessica McClintock, surrounded by lacy, white frocks, she tried on a dazzling, extremely tight, gold sheath, cut to the navel and shirred up the sides. And then wondered why I didn’t think it was right for Confirmation! I have always wanted to be featured in a “People” magazine story, but not as the mother of the girl who wore a racy dress to Confirmation and caused the Bishop to keel over on the altar and die. In my mind, I pictured the scene unfolding: MA’s name is called; she steps forward and announces her saint name (Teresa, the Little Flower who probably never thought of wearing a gold dress); the bishop looks at my daughter; his eyes glaze over; his staff clatters to the ground, followed by his body; and my daughter not only doesn’t receive Confirmation, she is excommunicated from the church and given the name Jezebel and stoned. Needless to say, I stood my ground and nixed the gold dress.

At the next store, it was a strapless, shirred royal blue number cut high up the leg. I had a pounding headache. Even the friend she brought along was rolling her eyes, wondering what MA was thinking. I nixed the blue dress too. This caused her great pain because she had developed a bond with the dress. That is exactly what she told me and every dress thereafter was measured against the blue dress and found lacking. We went to a trendy store aimed at girls her age and found the perfect dress. It was a simple white sundress with tiny pastel flowers on the hem and pink straps. Logan and I both exclaimed in delight, convinced we had found the perfect dress. MA however, did not agree. She dug in her heels and refused to try it on but I finally bribed her into it.

When she came out of the dressing room, she had a pout on her face. She hunched and rounded her shoulders and thrust her stomach out, scowling at us. She looked like an Armenian washerwoman coming off a bad drunk. She refused to acknowledge the perfection of the dress. Instead she moaned “why can’t I have the blue one???????????” Logan and I looked at each other in despair. This was not getting any easier.

We went to Macy’s where MA immediately gravitated toward a display of slinky gowns in jewel tones, perfect attire for an evening at a strip joint. She fingered them longingly, drooling over the rhinestone studded straps. Finally, she found a simple gray dress with actual sleeves and said “I like this one ok.” I whipped out my credit card so fast it sparked. The dress was not perfect. In fact, it was a bit boring. But boring trumps slutty any day!

On our way to the food court, we stopped in one final store. In fact it was White House/Black Market, a very expensive store. Everything in it is either black or white….hence the name!! There was a lovely gay many working and he asked what for what occasion were we shopping. I told him Confirmation and we were looking for something that would not cause the Bishop to swoon. “I have just the thing,” he said and led us to a rack of dresses. The first one he picked up caused MA to swoon.

“How much?” I asked. He showed me the price tag and I swooned. Never in my life have I spent that much money on a garment. Never. And yet, I let her try it on. And of course, it was perfect. Mind you, if you’re a size Zero, everything looks perfect, but that’s not the point.

Reader, I bought that dress. But I did not pay full price. In this economy I was smart enough to look at the kid, not the salesman and say “It depends on how much of a discount he’s going to give me.” The resulting discount was 25%, and while it didn’t completely eliminate the gasp factor, it lowered it enough to make it bearable. Besides, we had been through every single store in the mall and this was the only thing we had both agreed on. Sanity can be purchased for a price. So we have the dress, but we still need a shrug and shoes. I am setting up a PayPal account on this site and we are accepting donations for the Confirmation outfit fund. Please give generously because my insurance severely limits inpatient mental health stays.

Once again, I am in the hallowed halls of learning, subbing for MA’s English teacher. I am pretty comfortable with the class now and I almost think I know what I am doing. Which is probably dangerous for all concerned!! I know I’ve made an impression because they all begged me for the restaurant ratings yesterday. And tomorrow I plan on reading them the crime blotter. An education genius, that’s me!! Wonder if Obama needs an education secretary?

Here is a random observation from my life. I have a “Race for the Cure” t-shirt. I didn’t actually participate in the “Race for the Cure”. I paid my money, I got my shirt, but I never actually ran the race. As I am fond of saying, I am built for comfort, not for speed. I meant to run the race. I had very good intentions. But on race day, it was cold outside and I was busy playing Pogo and I never really got around to going to the actual race. For the longest time I felt guilty about it and didn’t wear the shirt. But one day it was cold outside and it was the only long sleeved shirt I could find, so I wore it. And three different people asked me if I had run the race!!

Do you know how low you feel when a misty eyed cancer survivor tremulously asks when you ran the race? I’m sure it’s akin to the feeling you get when you stick kittens with pins or kick old ladies in the kneecap. “um…well…..uh….I, um….well….ididntactuallyruntheracebecauseihadthefluthatdayandmyleftpinkiefingerwasswollenandmygreatgrandmotherwasdyingthatdaysoicouldntruntherace….” Really, what can you say? “I didn’t run the race, I’m a lazy cow and I stayed home and watched QVC, but hey, good luck with that cancer thing!!” Needless to say, the shirt is going to Goodwill. Let someone buy it from the thrift store and try and explain THAT to cancer girl!! At least I donated money to Susan G. Komen!!

I really don’t have much else to say. I have been so busy with work and kids and life that I haven’t even had time to think. Really, all I have for you today is the Komen thing. I’m racking my brain for something witty, but it seems to be empty. So I guess this will just have to suffice as a post. I pinky promise I am going to read all your blogs and to try and update my blog more often!! Happy Tuesday!!

Here I am, still subbing in the eighth grade classroom. I really like eighth grade students. And I believe they like me as well. They seem very responsive to my unorthodox teaching methods. I am sorry I won’t be here all week because we have really bonded.

Yesterday, as they worked on their research papers, I read them the restaurant ratings in the paper. I consider this to be a very educational exercise. Let’s call it “real world prep 101″. Kids need to know there is more in the newspaper than just doom and gloom. The restaurant ratings are informative as well as entertaining. I started out with a Chinese buffet restaurant. Chinese buffets are very reliable about failing their health inspections. The health rating was a 76 out of 100. The point loss started with the basics like improperly labeled containers and no soap in the employee restroom, then went progressively downhill. I saved the best for last: they lost five points for presence of rodents. Personally, I call that economizing because keeping your fresh meat source close at hand is better for the environment and saves money. I guess the health department doesn’t see it that way. But let me tell you, kids LOVE to hear about rats running amok in Chinese restaurants!! The “EWWWWWWWWWW” factor is huge!!

It got even better. There was a REinspection score for the same place and the score improved to an 83. However, “presence of insects” joined the rodents. I was thrilled to point that out to the kids: Look guys, now we’ve got RATS and ROACHES!! I would love to know what they went home and told their parents about English class!!

Today I had to administer a drug survey. I should not be left in charge of things like drug surveys. I am not mature enough. First I had to read the directions: YOU ARE PART OF A SCHOOL SURVEY TO DETERMINE TOBACCO, ALCOHOL, AND OTHER DRUG USE AND VIOLENCE….THE QUESTIONNAIRE IS MULTIPLE CHOICE AND INCLUDES QUESTIONS ABOUT YOU, YOUR FAMILY, AND DIFFERENT TYPES OF DRUGS….”

Well, right away I am wanting to ask whose mom is stealing the Ritalin and whose cousin is cooking meth in the basement, but I restrained myself with a mighty effort. I handed out the questionnaires and as they began, I read the FAQ’s out loud.

1. What are steroids….and where can I buy some, I mentally added. We are asking about steroids athletes take…..like you, Johnny, because we’ve noticed you suddenly gained 75 pounds and look like the Hulk. And don’t give us that crap about GROWTH SPURT!! Growth spurt my ass, why don’t you hand over the testosterone you little craphead and just ‘fess up!!
Of course I didn’t say that out loud, I was calmly reading the paper, but the little devil on my shoulder was cackling madly.

2. What is ecstasy? Ecstasy is when the last child gets on the bus and you have a whole day ahead of you with nothing to do and….oh, wait, it’s a drug right? A hallucinogenic drug that gives you a sense of carefree excitiment that lasts for 4 to 6 hours and then you vomit green stuff and keel over dead and the school system has to pay for extra grief counselors, even though the system has declared proration and can’t afford to pay for pencils, because all your goofy little friends are going to be SO SAD that you huffed too much white out and fried your brain so DON’T DO DRUGS!!
Sorry, got a little carried away there…

3. What is OxyContin? It’s a painkiller prescribed by doctors and if you have any you need to share it with Ms. Jennifer RIGHT NOW!! I’ll meet you in the bathroom….

4. What about a hunting gun in my car or a pocketknife in my pocket? Well kids, back in the old days, before you little monsters started shooting each other, having one of those things was perfectly ok. But thanks to a steady diet of violent video games as well as the break down of the American family unit because of homosexuality, you can’t even have a tiny GI Joe gun on the premises or you will face expulsion and possible jail time. So just leave the munitions at home Johnny.

5. How easy is it to get……? If I don’t use drugs should I still answer about availability? Absolutely and we need you to be as specific as possible. Please list dealer names, contact numbers, street location and the services provided. Also be sure to include pertinent information about payment methods and whose stuff is highest quality.

Fortunately, I was able to get through the list with a relatively straight face. They were completely silent as they answered the questions, likely because they all shared an Oxycontin cocktail before they came to class!! After they were done, I gave them a Word Search I pulled out of the lesson plan the teacher left. Only half the letters were missing so they couldn’t find any of the wrods. So I abandoned all pretense of teaching and read them their horoscopes instead! Am I a great teacher or what?

Well, the day is still young. I have four language arts classes to deal with, plus lunch. And I’m running out of inspiration. Maybe I’ll read the obituaries to them and tell them everyone died of a drug overdose or sexually transmitted disease. That ought to scare them straight!!