skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Monday, 07 July
Great Moments In Not Learning
A few recollected snippets from my grade school memories.
Math class with Mr. Porn Moustache. We had been given a big test the previous day. Enter J. J. is the prettiest girl in our grade, and of course quite popular, and, for reasons known only to herself, generally nice to me. Anyway, she's typically effervescent as she walks into class and as she wanders by Mr. Porn Moustache's desk, she tosses her hair and tinkles, "Hi, Mr. P.M.! Did you get our little testes taken care of?"
. . .
Sixth grade with Mr. Bald. I liked Mr. Bald, who let me joke about said baldness . . . once. But anyway, in his class, I was sitting next to my geek friend M., who was a frighteningly good artist and, incidentally, a diabetic. We were utter tools; at one point we decided to see if we could forge a "psychic link," and spent much time furiously thinking of funny shapes or objects and seeing if the other could scribble down a picture of it. Once he showed me a drawing of a beetle. "Is that close?" I stared at it; I had been thinking of the Millennium Falcon. "Yes," I said, "that's really close."
Mr. Bald was droning on about some fucking thing one day, and it must have been something interesting, because there were a lot of questions and digressions and discussion and so forth; kids were waving their hands around like semaphores. Not M. though; he sat quietly with his hand up, waiting patiently for about twenty minutes, which was odd in and of itself, because M. was, in true geek fashion, painfully shy. But he apparently was going to have his say. Finally, finally, Mr. Bald called on M.
"Yes, M.? You've been patient."
"I'm having a reaction, Mr. Bald."
Mr. Bald wigged out. "JESUS! Don't just sit there! Go get some juice or something!" He looked poleaxed. So did we; yelling "Jesus!" in a classroom in deepest Idaho is, ah, just not done.
It shames me now, but for a long time, I thought that M.'s diabetic reactions were really cool. It was, I think, an early hint of why people experiment with drugs: "I wonder what that's like?" On the other hand, it's possible that I'm just a fucking weirdo.
. . .
Geography time with Mrs. . . . Somebody. Let's call her Mrs. Shoes, because I'm pretty sure she wore some. We're looking at a map of Europe, and Mrs. Shoes is pointing at good old Italy. "Now, Italy here is pretty easy to recognize, because most people think it looks like something familiar. Can you see it? Anyone?"
A red-haired kid named D. raises his hand. D. was a nice kid, I remember, not terribly given to the behavior of his peers, which was pushing Skot down frequently, so I didn't mind him. Mrs. Shoes calls on him, and D. says, "It looks like a boot!"
Mrs. Shoes is pleased, and decides to see if she can get D. to get another hit off a slow pitch. "It does look like a boot, doesn't it?" Then she points to Sicily. "And what does it look like it's kicking here?" D. stares at the map for a few seconds.
That might be my single favorite moment from grade school. I could not stop laughing. And you know what? The little fucker was right. Go look. To this day, whenever I see a map of Sicily, I secretly think, "Typewriter."
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
That's not a typewriter, that's clearly a grande piano!
That little fucker was right.
Way good post, mister. Inspiring, even.
I could not stop laughing.
Neither can I, right now. I want to have your babies.
It IS a typewriter!
Well slap my ass and call me Nancy, it IS a typewriter, just like everybody says.
I'm still looking for a map.
Maybe my imagination is just completely fried today, but I can't see it. And, Nancy, do I have to slap your ass?
Grand Piano I can see.
I see no typewriter. I can't make those 3D posters work either though.
Oh, and it took me a good minute to sort out that "J." was ending one sentence and begining the next sentence. I thought the name was "J.J.", and I couldn't for the life of me sort out what the hell you were trying to say.
its a squirrell!!
What answer was Mrs. Shoes expecting to that question? I've often heard Italy referred to as the boot. What's Sicily?
well... See Silly is supposed to be a rock, so they told us in french school and italian classes. does it mean europe is bored to death it has to kick a rock with its boot? who cares anyway :)
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