Lo Siento, Senor Poopie Pants

 The note on the teacher's desk read as follows: 

Dear Sub,

Welcome to my class of developmentally challenged kindergartners. You'll find today's lesson plan on the kidney table in the back of the room. Just follow the plan and you'll do fine.  Most of the kids don't speak English, but don't worry, my aide Mrs. Gomez will translate for you.  One of the kids in the class, Guadalupe, can help, as she is fairly fluent in English as well.  I'm at a workshop, so I may be back by the end of the school day to see how things went.

Mrs. Livingston

So began my first day as a substitute teacher.

One phrase in the letter immediately grabbed my attention.  "Developmentally challenged kindergartners," as I would find out soon enough, basically meant that the little bambinos could speak, poop, drool, cry, pee, fart, and put stuff in their bodies' various orifices.  I looked around for Mrs. Gomez the bilingual aide, but she was nowhere to be found.  I called the office.

"Uh, yeah, this is the sub in room 3. What time is the aide supposed to be here?"

"Oh, we forgot to tell you, Mrs. Gomez called out sick. You're kinda on your own today."

Beautiful, I thought. Just me and 32 Spanish-speaking five year olds.

I speak zero Spanish, so I was forced to develop a survival strategy.  Since I could pretty much tell from the kids' tone of voice if they were asking a question or making a statement, all questions would simply be answered with a "no."  What's the worst that could happen?  And if it was a statement beginning with the name of another kid, that was probably tattling.  In that case, I figured that I’d just confront the accused and make him stop whatever he was doing.

Shockingly, it worked like a charm.

"Senor, gobbletygooko taco emilio blabla gooba macha?" asked Felipe.  That's what it sounded like to me, anyway.

"No.”

Felipe went back to his table, sat down, and continued coloring a panda.

Dr. Spock can stick it, I thought.  I’m a child-development genius.

Luisa, an adorable little girl with a mucus-glazed face, approached.  "Maria blabati googa frappa enchiladamama guba glinko."

“Maria, you say?” I asked.  “Well let’s see what she’s up to, shall we?”  I walked over to her table, and wouldn't you know it, Maria was munching away on a blue-violet crayola.  I calmly took the crayon away, fetched the Easy-wipes, and helped Maria depurple her face.

"Gracias, Luisa," I said. Luisa smiled, causing another snot-bubble to burst on her upper lip. 

I'm a natural at this!  I wouldn't be surprised if I'm voted Disney's American Teacher of the Year.  I'll write a book about my experiences in the classroom, Bruce Willis will star in the motion picture.

A short while later, I felt a tug on my pant leg.  It was Jose.  "Maestro, Felipe waca boogity gooba binka caca."

Jose was apparently ratting out Felipe, who was still coloring his panda in a stunning array of non-traditional panda colors.  It looked like that poor panda had barfed up three pounds of Skittles.  Brimming with new-found confidence, I strutted over to Felipe's table and was immediately bombarded by the unmistakable stench of kiddie-crap along with a “yes, but it’s too late now” understanding of the question Felipe had been asking just a few minutes earlier.

I sent him to the office with a note that read "Please have Felipe call home. He pooped himself."  Given the smell Felipe was cultivating, I'm sure the note was unnecessary.

The next hour or so passed without any problems.  The kids colored, pasted pictures to match their vocabulary words, and snacked on Teddy Grahams and milk.  While they were eating, I read them Green Eggs and Ham, or to be completely accurate, Huevos Verdes con Jamon ("Huevos verdes con jamon? No me gusta, Juan Ramon").  And just when I was actually starting to have a good time with the rugrats, Pablo started crying his eyeballs out.

"MAESTRO! YO GOOBA BLOCA FLABBA JABBA WALLA FRAPA!"

Ya got me there, Pablo, I thought. This was neither a tattle nor a question.  Time to enlist the assistance of the allegedly bilingual Guadalupe.

"Guadalupe, come here please."

Guadalupe, the adorable butterball, toddled over. "Do you know what Pablo just said?"

"Chess," said Guadalupe.

"Well, will you please tell me?"

"He say, yo gooba bloca flabba jabba walla frapa." 

Thanks, Guadalupe, you've been helpful.  "No, Guadalupe, I mean, can you tell me what that means in English."

"Oh, chess, that means he have a crayon in his ear."

I looked in Pablo's ear and damned if Guadalupe hadn't nailed it.  There was a broken red crayon way down in there.  What was it with these kids and crayons, anyway?

Now, you need to understand that it had already been a long, frustrating, and exhausting day.  I wasn't exactly thinking clearly.  There was a problem, it needed to be solved, and I was the only one in the room capable of saving the day, or at least capable of retrieving the crayon from Pablo's ear.

And before we continue, I'm going to remind you that for the purposes of this story, you are on MY side.

Obviously, I needed a tool to reach far enough down into Pablo's ear.  Through some egregious teacher malpractice, Mrs. Livingston did not have a pair of tweezers anywhere in her desk.  What she did have were pipe-cleaners and scotch tape.  The metaphorical light bulb clicked on above my addled skull.

First, I deftly fashioned a long hook out of one of the pipe cleaners.  And just to make sure I could get the crayon secured, I stuck a tiny ball of scotch tape at the end of the hook.

I knelt down beside Pablo, who was sitting in his chair -- still crying.  The rest of the kids, enthralled by the proceedings, gathered round.  I rechecked the tape and straightened the pipe cleaner for maximum reach.  The kids held their collective breath.  As I raised the pipe cleaner to Pablo's ear, a little voice inside my head finally decided to speak up.

"Hey, dumbass, just what do you think you’re doing?"

Upon further review, I realized this was perhaps a bad idea.  But I couldn't just leave the crayon in the kid's ear, and I really didn't want to bug the office again, not after the "Felipe and the Pantalones of Doom" incident.  It was a puzzler.  A bamboozler.  A conundrum, even.

"Senor?" said Guadalupe.

"Yes, Guadalupe, what is it?"

"Maybe eef Pablo shake hees head, de crayon comes out."

Hot damn. That's so crazy it just might work. "Hey, Pablo, come here a minute."

Pablo shook his head back and forth as hard as he could.  He held it parallel(ish) to the ground and smacked the side of his head a few times.

And God-damn, the crayon popped out and fell to the floor.  The children cheered.  Pablo gave Guadalupe a high-five.  Kids jumped for joy.  Luisa gave me a big hug, smearing snot all over the front of my white Pierre Cardin shirt.  Fiesta time!

Amidst the whooping and hollering, Mrs. Livingston entered the room.  Her workshop had ended a bit early.

"Wow!" she said.  "Looks like you had a great day!"

That's right, Mrs. Livingston.  Never mind the absent aide, the lodged crayon, Luisa's cavalcade o' mucus and Senor Poopie Pants.  Our day was just fantastic.

d

Purty Easy, Huh?

During the Summer of '81, which was between my sophomore and junior years of high school, my family moved from New Jersey to Southern California. This gave me just a couple months to get acclimated to the new culture (such as it is) before starting a new school year at Norco High School.

Norco is not the most glamorous of SoCal communities, by the way. Small ranches, horse paths, a constantly lingering dung-like aroma . . . Malibu it ain't. I really can't sugarcoat it, moving to this shit-kicker of a town was a disappointment. Even compared to New Jersey.

Come September, I began 11th grade at NHS. I had no idea what to expect, but as it turned out, it wasn't a whole lot different from Middlesex High back in Jersey, except that most of the Norco campus was outdoors and, you know, the aforementioned dung-like aroma. But in the end, high school is high school, so before long it was back to business as usual.

My favorite teacher, by far, was Mr. Garland, who I had for Algebra II. He was from Arkansas, or maybe Tennessee, one of those states in the Hillbilly Belt. He wore a suit and tie every day, he was very well-mannered, and he had a distinguished southern drawl. His passion for teaching was obvious.  Whenever we learned a new skill - the quadratic formula, trigonometry, ordered pairs - he would give us "drills" to reinforce the concepts.

"Remember, y'all," he'd say, "ya gotta duh-rill, duh-rill, duh-rill, so you get faaast and accurate." That became an oft-imitated mantra among his students . . . "duh-rill, duh-rill, duh-rill."

Mr. Garland's grading policy was very competitive, and it kept us motivated to do our best. After each drill or exam, he would rank everyone's score on the blackboard, with names going alongside the top fifteen. Scoring near the top was quite an accomplishment, and we wore that badge of honor with pride. In retrospect, it was probably discouraging for those who regularly showed up at the bottom (even without a name attached, if you got say, 15% on a test, you knew EXACTLY where you stood), but it sure made us work hard to top each other.

He had an interesting scoring system as well. It wouldn't necessarily be based on a 100-point scale. A test, for example, might be worth 2500 points. We would earn a certain number of points for each question, and he'd also award "neatness points", "extra credit points", "detail points", lots of different opportunities to raise our scores even if we weren't nailing all the answers. In fact, I remember one time that a student who'd struggled all year finally got 2100 out of 2500 (about 85%) and then Mr. Garland threw in fifty "proud of you points" which bumped him up into the top ten. Some of us complained that it was unfair to award "gift" points like that, but looking back on it now, it was actually pretty cool.

As you'd guess, the same group of ten to fifteen students pretty much dominated the top slots, so the competition around final exam time was pretty intense. My crowning glory came at the end of the first semester, when we would find out who made the top ten for the entire course. We're talking about 25,000 total points available. I was sitting about third going into the final exam, so I knew I'd have to do well. I'd at least have to outscore the two people ahead of me (Sharon Reynolds and Darren Holman, if memory serves) to be number one for the semester. I studied, and created my own drills so I was pretty confident. Well I ended up getting the highest grade on the final, which put me at the top overall.

And I didn't even get any "proud of you points".

To build our confidence, Mr. Garland would always remind us that algebra is "purty easy, huh?" He would finish even the most convoluted lecture with that reassurance.

"The reciprocals of y'alls basic trig functions are called the cosecant, secant, and cotangent, ruh-spectively," he explained. "The inverse functions are called the arcsine, arccosine, and arctangent, ruh-spectively. There's arithmetic ruh-lations between these functions, which're known as trigonometric ah-dentities. With these functions y'all can answer virch-ally any questions about arbitrary trah-angles by using the law of sines and the law of cosines. These laws can be used to compute the ruh-maining angles and sahdes of any trah-angle as soon as two sahdes and an angle or two angles and a sahde or three sahdes are known. These laws are useful in all branches of geometry, since every polygon may be duh-scribed as a finite combination of trah-angles.

Purty easy, huh?"

Sure, we all nodded, but . . .

My favorite Mr. G. story involves not a test that I aced, but one that I bombed. I hadn't studied for it - I'd had a couple after-school events that week, and honestly, I got lazy. I took the test, had a feeling I didn't do so well (I'd completely blanked on a couple of key formulas), and kicked myself all the way home. The next day, Mr. G handed me back the test, with a giant "D" laughing at me from the top corner of the page.

"Come see me after class. We need to talk."

"Okay Mr. Garland."

After class, I tried to explain. "Mr. G, I know I blew it. I had a rehears -" He cut me off mid-sentence.

"Someone die?"

"No."

"Were ya in the hospital?"

"No."

"Then ah don't wanna hear it. Here's what's gonna happen. Yer gonna study yer butt off tonight, come to mah classroom tomorrah mornin' at 6:45 and take the test again. Yer not gonna get away with this lazy attempt. Now get outta here."

What? I was getting a second chance. It was my fault I bombed, I didn't deserve this reprieve. Well, I studied until about midnight, showed up the next morning and retook the test, and got an A-. When I turned it in, Mr G looked me square in the eye.

"The only reason you got another chance is 'cause I know yer not a D student. Don't let it happen again."

"Yes, sir." And I didn't. That was the last time I went to any class unprepared for a test. Ever. Which, of course, was Mr. G's intention.

For the two years I attended Norco High, Mr. Garland was voted Toughest Teacher. He was also voted Favorite Teacher. It's not a coincidence. We loved him because he was tough on us, but he also did everything he could so that we'd succeed.

And that, y'all, is what a being a teacher is all about.


d

The Pen is Mightier

I was in second grade, sitting at my desk practicing cursive B's when the classroom phone rang.   As I watched Mrs. Michaels talk to the principal, the contents of my stomach did a spot-on impression of the Ringling Brothers' acrobats.  I was in big trouble, and I knew it.

It began the day before when Robbie West said he had something to show me.

Robbie was a key figure in most of my childhood mishaps.  The Evel Knievel incident, the Knickerbocker Toy Factory debacle, and of course, the Courtship of Debbie's Hooter.  He was a nice enough kid, but trouble seemed to find him and he was always eager to share it with the rest of us. 

"Whatcha got?" I asked.

"Check this out."  He showed me a ball-point pen.  But it wasn't just any pen.  This pen had a picture of a gorgeous bikini-clad hottie on it.

"Cool," I said.

"Wait, there's more."  Robbie turned the pen upside down and the bikini disappeared!  The chick was totally naked!

In today's world, a nudie pen would be no big deal whatsoever.  Any eight-year-old with a computer and moderately clueless parents can pull up all sorts of sexual debauchery with a couple mouse clicks.  But in 1973, a glimpse of boob was a lot harder to come by.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked.

"Swiped it from Stop-N-Shop."

"Trade ya for it."

When the haggling was done, I'd obtained the nudie pen for my Nerf basketball set and five pieces of Bazooka bubble gum.  I thought I'd gotten a great deal.

Didn't really work out that way.

My first mistake was taking the pen to school with me.  I was eight, what did I know?  I tucked it away in my desk, hidden safely in my pencil box.  No chance of the teacher finding it.

And then came my second mistake.  I took it out to lunch with me and showed it to Gordon Wackerman.  Why I chose Gordon is a question that perplexes me to this very day.  He was in my class, but he wasn't a particular friend of mine.  In fact, most kids didn't like him because he smelled bad and picked his nose a lot.  But for whatever reason, I walked over to his lunch table and sat down.

"Hey, Gordon."

"What do you want?"  he asked, digging for another nostril nugget.  Gross.

"Lookit what I got."  I showed him the pen, and demonstrated its magical powers.  Curiously, Gordon didn't seem all that interested.  "Isn't that cool?" I asked.

"I guess so."  He took a bite of his baloney sandwich, essentially ignoring me.  This boggled my mind.  What guy our age wouldn't be interested in a peek at a naked lady?   That's Gordon, I guess.  Captain Weirdo.

"Okay, well, see ya later."  I got up and headed out to the playground for recess.

I was playing on the swings when I noticed Gordon talking to Brenda the playground aide.  Their conversation lasted about ten seconds, and when it ended, Brenda headed my way.  The booger-eater had ratted me out!

Brenda was a scary figure, as lunch ladies and playground aides tend to be.  She weighed about two-eighty and wore way too much makeup.  She looked like Humpty Dumpty with a wig.  She gave me a withering scowl.

"Do you have something that you shouldn't?" she asked me.

If I'd been four or five years older, I would've snapped out a smart-ass reply.  "Yeah, a pair of your daughter's underwear" maybe, or "a bad case of the clap, if you believe what my pediatrician says".  Instead, the terrified and un-witty second grade version of me reached into my coat pocket and, without a word, handed her my stripper pen.

This was uncharted territory for me.  When the recess bell rang, we all headed back to class.  Kids were laughing and skipping, but for me it was more like the Bataan Death March.  I sat down at my desk and started working on the cursive B's.

Mrs. Michaels hung up the phone and headed over to my desk.  "Mr. Skyler wants to see you in his office," she said.

I walked down the hallway, picturing the horror that awaited me.  Did they still paddle kids in school?  I didn't know, but I had a feeling that I was going to find out, one way or the other.  For sure my parents would get a phone call, which meant a severe grounding or worse.

I entered the main office and said to the secretary, "Uh, Mrs. Michaels said I had to come see Mr. Skyler."

"He'll be with you in a minute," she said.  Was she smiling?  What's THAT all about?

I waited in the reception area for what seemed like four hours.  Suddenly, the door to the inner office swung open and with a thunderous explosion of flame and smoke, Mr. Skyler appeared.  He stood about seven foot five, and wore a long black cape and derby hat.  His eyes glowed red, and a thick green liquid oozed from festering sores on his face.  When he smiled, his fangs sparkled in the fluorescent glow of the ceiling lights.

Or so it seemed.

"Come in and have a seat," he commanded.

I went in.

I had a seat.

Mr. Skyler sat down behind his desk, opened the top drawer, and took out a pen.  MY pen.

"Tell me where you got this."

There were a lot of things I could've said at that point.  I could've feigned ignorance.  I could've said that I found it on the school bus that morning.  I could've really given the story a twist and claimed that the pen was Gordon Wackerman's and he was just trying to get me into trouble.

I didn't say any of those things.  When the cards were on the table, I panicked and turned snitch.

"Robbie West gave it to me."

I was eight years old, give me a break.  I'm not proud of it.

Mr. Skyler then gave me a very stern and dignified lecture about how the human body is a wonderful creation, and that it should not be thought of as dirty, blah, blah, blah.  To be honest, I wasn't really listening.  I was too busy trying to keep my bladder under control.

The lecture ended, and he sent me back to class.

I sat by Robbie on the bus ride home.  He got called to the office right after I did ("I have no idea how they knew you gave it to me," I insisted) and apparently received the same lecture.

"Did you get the pen back?" he asked me.

"No.  Skyler probably kept it."  Wouldn't have surprised me.  He could've stashed it in the drawers with the skulls of former students and the keys to the school dungeon.

It was a long time until Robbie and I got anywhere near illicit nudie stuff again.  If I recall correctly, it was fourth grade when he found his dad's stash of Playboys.

We didn't take them to school, that's for damn sure.


l

The A Word

It takes a special type of person to be a substitute teacher, and by "special" I of course mean someone who possesses a college degree, an outgoing personality, and an utter disregard for his own personal well-being.  The daily routine of a substitute teacher starts with a phone call at the crack of dawn telling him the school, grade level, and the name of the teacher for the class he's been assigned that day.  When he arrives at the school, he's given the keys to the classroom and a folder containing the roll sheets and lesson plans for the day.  At least, it usually contains lesson plans.  Sometimes, though, the regular teacher has neglected this critical responsibility leaving the sub to either rely on other teachers for support or simply "wing it" in an effort to make it through the day.

Little known fact: The absence of lesson plans for the sub is what led to the creation of popular classroom games such as "Silent Ball" and "Head Up, Seven Up".

After getting his keys and folder, the sub wanders around campus looking for the right classroom.  Inevitably, this journey ends with the sub confidently entering the room, realizing he's in the wrong place (because there's already a teacher in there) and asking, "I'm sorry, could you tell me where room 215 is?"

He finally finds room 215, writes his name on the white board, and waits for the arrival of 30-35 children who will spend the rest of the day making him completely miserable.

At least, that was my experience in the three years I spent as a substitute teacher.

Here's the thing, though, it provided me with a few great stories, one of which I've entitled "The A Word."

I was subbing for a fifth grade teacher named Mrs. Walton.  The morning had gone as well as could be expected, fifteen minutes of math followed by two and a half hours of Head Up, Seven Up.  After lunch, two girls in the class, Pauline and Stephanie, came running up to me.

"Hey, Mr. whatever your name is," said Stephanie.  That's another thing about being a sub.  Write it on the board as many times as you want, unless you're a stand-up comedian or have movie-star looks, kids will never remember your name.  I'm neither of those things, so regularly had to settle for "Mr. whatever your name is" or "Yo, teacher dude."

"Yes, Stephanie?" I replied.

"I don't want to be a tattle tale or anything, but Pauline just called me the B word."

Time for a quick lesson on elementary school vocabulary.  When a student doesn't want to get in trouble for using profanity, he or she refers to cuss words by their first letter.  The F word, for instance, is self-explanatory and needs no elaboration; however, other words are not so clear.  For kindergarteners, the S word is "shut up", by second grade it evolves to "stupid".  It's not until the middle of fourth grade that it becomes the S word that we all know and love.  That would be shit, for the less "street smart" among you.  The B word is another one that's pretty universal, so when Stephanie fired her accusation at Pauline, it's safe to say that everyone was on the same page.

"Okay, Pauline," I said.  "Why did you call Stephanie the B word?  I've known her for a long time, almost four hours now, and I'm sure that she's not a b-, uh, one of those."

Pauline was indignant.  "I called her that because Stephanie called me the A word."

This one threw me.  The only A word I could think of was the one that sort of rhymes with "hassle", but from what I could tell about Stephanie, that's a word she wouldn't have used.  I mean, I could've been wrong, but she didn't strike me as a mean or foul-mouthed kid.  So, taking a bit of a risk, I asked for clarification.

"Um, Pauline, what's the A word?" I asked.

"Idiot."

Stephanie raised a quizzical eyebrow at Pauline, then looked at me.  In grand gesture that would've made any circus ringmaster proud, she extended her arms toward Pauline and shouted, "TA DA!"

Trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle my laughter, I told Stephanie, "Okay, okay.  Steph, promise me that you won't ever use the A word at school again?"

"Okay, Mr. whatever your name is," she said.  "I won't."

Pauline seemed satisfied.


d

Samantha's Writing Homework

The other night I was visiting my brother when my nine-year old niece Samantha asked me if I'd help her with her writing homework.  Back when my own kids were in elementary school, I always enjoyed the opportunity to help with various assignments and projects.  Of course, sometimes my "help" wasn't so helpful, like the time my daughter Lindsay got a D- on a History Day project after I told her that the Battle of the Bulge was fought by Oprah Winfrey.  After that, she and her brother stopped asking for my input so often.  So when Sammi asked for my assistance with the writing assignment, I was happy to get back on the homework bandwagon.

This was her assignment:

After reading the following story, write an essay about the main theme showing your understanding of the story.  Support your ideas by referring to the story and your own experiences.

The Stone in the Road
by Judy Sierra


A certain country was ruled by a kind-hearted king who would do anything for his subjects.  But at last he noticed that they were growing lazy, and seldom did anything for themselves -- or for each other!  The king wondered if there was anyone left in his kingdom who would go out of his way to help his neighbors.  So he concocted a plan.

Late one night, the king went to the main road of the kingdom and rolled a huge stone right smack into the middle of it.  Then he secretly placed a bag of gold under the stone.  Next morning, he hid near the road to watch.


First, a woman came by on her way to the market.  Because of the stone, she had to walk in the mud at the side of the road.  "Someone should really move that stone," she snapped angrily.

Next, two students passed by on their way to school.  "What a nuisance!" they cried.  "Why doesn't the king move that rock out of our road?"


And so it continued all day long: some people blamed the king, some people blamed the stone, and some even hit the stone as they walked around it.  As the sun was about to set, a young girl passed by.  When she saw the stone, she stopped.  "I'd better get this out of the road," she said.  "Someone might pass by here after dark, and not see the stone, and bump into it."  The girl pushed and pushed at the stone.

A man walked by and said, "Let the king take care of that."

But the girl kept pushing until at last the stone began to roll, and rolled over the edge of the road and down the hill.

It was then that everyone saw the bag of gold the king had left there.  Everyone agreed that the girl deserved the gold.  And, everyone was more than a bit ashamed that they had not thought of moving the stone.  After that, they began helping each other instead of waiting for the king to do things for them.

Samantha and I discussed the story at length.  While it seemed like the author (and Sam's teacher) wanted us to think that it was a story about taking responsibility and helping other people, we picked up on a more obvious (and somewhat disillusioning) message.  Here's what we came up with:

The Passive-Aggressive King: An Analysis of The Stone in the Road
By Samantha, Mrs. McDonald's third grade class 
  
The obvious theme of The Stone in the Road is that passive-aggressive trickery is a pretty screwed up way to run a kingdom.  The king in this story is a total douchebag, the sort of leader who pussy-foots around a problem rather than confronting it head-on .  He should have inspired the citizens of his kingdom with a passionate speech about cooperation, or spear-headed a community outreach program to get everyone involved in the betterment of society.  But no, he tried to solve one problem by creating an even bigger one.

In a misguided attempt to teach his subjects a lesson, the king decided to place a large stone (the word "boulder" would be more accurate here) in the middle of a well-traveled road.  What a dill weed.  Inventing a problem that doesn't exist just to illustrate one's vague point about cooperation is Neanderthal in its inception.  The king was actually very lucky that the only consequences of his roadblock were a pair of muddy shoes and two ticked off kids.  Clearly, it could've been much worse.  What if an ambulance came whizzing down the road en route to the local hospital, carrying a battle-weary prince with an opponent's lance sticking out of his neck?  The boulder in the road would, at best, cause a great delay and lessen the chances for the prince's survival.  At worst, the ambulance would slam into the boulder, everyone inside perishing in a fiery explosion.  Did the king think about that, even for a moment?

The irony here is that the two students who used the road were right when they said, "The king should move this stone."  It is, after all, his job to make sure the kingdom is safe for travelers.  At the very least, the king should have delegated this responsibility to a Department of Public Safety.  At any rate, individual citizens can't be expected to maintain the streets themselves, they're not trained for it.  That became all too apparent when the little girl took it upon herself to move the rock, causing it to "roll down the hill."  The story doesn't say what happened next, but surely it wasn't good.  Did the rock flatten a schoolyard full of kindergartners?  Smash into someone's home?  It's a good thing the little girl found a bag of gold because she's probably going to get sued, and the king himself should be named as an accomplice!


Instead of sending his message in such a convoluted manner, the king should have developed a proactive plan to combat laziness or, better yet, started to lead by example.  If the people of the kingdom saw their leader going out of his way to do good deeds for others, they would probably do the same.  

Even though the assignment didn't ask for it, we printed out a picture to accompany the story, depicting what could've happened to the kingdom.

I can't wait to find out what grade she got.



d

Zen and the Art of Seat Selection

Bus 12 was, for all intents and purposes, a carbon monoxide-wheezing reform school on wheels.

Choosing a seat among the inmates was basically a game of mass transit Russian Roulette. Those of us at stop number one (Runyon and Grove), had it best because when we got on the bus, there were nothing but empty seats to choose from. But there was definitely a seat-selection strategy involved. First of all, you had to make sure that there was at least one kid (preferably two) in the seat behind you. This was important (we're talking "I'll-give-you-my-Twinkie-to-sit-there" important), because Danny Paluccio got on at the SECOND stop. Paluccio was making his second attempt at the fifth grade, was built like an oil drum and had all the charm and compassion of a flea-bitten wombat. There's no way in hell you wanted that goon behind you because the rest of your trip would be festooned with noogies, neck slaps, and wet willies.

After the Paluccio stop, the next order of business was making sure that the seat you were in was full. If you didn't partner up at the original stop, you definitely wanted to recruit a seatmate at stop number two (someone besides Paluccio, obviously), or else you ran the risk of having Patti Ramberg sit next to you when she boarded at stop number three. Patti was a cootie-infested elementary school version of Miss Almira Gulch and everyone from kindergarten to fifth grade knew it. If Ramberg sat next to you, well, you were that morning's cootie-by-association. Chants of "YOU HAD TO SIT BY RAMMMM-BERRRRG" followed you around the rest of the day.

One fateful morning in April, a second grader named Snot Bubble got the double-whammy.

Barry "Snot Bubble" Feldman was a pip-squeak, complete with a do-it-yourself haircut, perpetually runny nose, and a banged-up Flintstones lunchbox. On the morning that the School Bus Gods pointed their collective fingers of misfortune Barry's way, he got on the bus with the rest of us at stop number one and chose the front seat assuming, I suppose, that the bus driver would offer some form of security. Barry was young and a tad naive.

Barry enjoyed his solitude on the first leg of the journey, the only slight mishap occurring when the bus driver hit the Clay Avenue dip at too high a speed, causing Snot Bubble to levitate momentarily from his seat and bang his head against the window during the ensuing descent. He blinked a few times, and shook off the cobwebs just as the bus slammed to a halt at the corner of Bound Brook Road and South Lincoln Avenue.The door hissed open and Paluccio slithered aboard. He paused at the top of the bus steps and surveyed the hunting ground. His beady eyes focused on Snot Bubble, then on the empty seat behind him, and a smirk crept upon the bully's face. With his trusty sidekick Marco Stevens at his side, Paluccio plopped down behind Snot Bubble and opened the day's festivities with a slap to the back of the head.

"What's goin' on wit' you ta-day, Snot Bubble?"

"Weave me awone, Pawuccio."

"Yeah, Danny," mocked Marco, "weave him awone." The two thugs guffawed like a pair of doped-up hyenas.

For the next mile or so, in addition to enduring the usual bone-jarring and teeth-gnashing caused by diabolically placed potholes, Snot Bubble suffered though a litany of taunts, ear lobe-flicking, and other Paluccio-inflicted humiliation.

The bus chugged on to stop number three, where the final group of miscreants slunk aboard. Patti Ramberg was the last one on, and by that point the only choice she was left with was riding shotgun with Snot Bubble, whose morning was immediately downgraded from "miserable" to "tragic".

Paluccio made the official call. "AND THE WINNER OF TODAY'S 'SIT BY THE COOTIE' CONTEST IS . . . "

A rough stretch of road served as a makeshift drum roll . . .

"SNOT BUBBLE!"

Snot Bubble struggled to fight back the tears. In the seat across the aisle, two first graders were talking about a birthday celebration, complete with chocolate cake, Neapolitan ice cream and Amaze-o the Magician, but there was no party in Barry Feldman's eight year-old heart. Just a bunch of deflated balloons and a busted pinata.

"Hi Barry, are you okay?" asked Ramberg. Cootie rumors aside, Patti was really a very nice girl but her gawky appearance mitigated against any potential popularity. Fair? Of course not, but this was elementary school.

"I'm fine, Wamberg. Don't wowwy about it."

"You know that Danny's just a big ol' bully, right? He's nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm not afwaid of him, Wamberg, I just wish he'd stop fwicking my ears and stuff."

The bus squealed into a sharp left turn, centrifuging Snot Bubble and Ramberg into some unintentional body contact.

"Hey look, Danny," squealed Marco, "She's giving him a hug!"

"Yeah," said Paluccio. "I think they're gonna make out. Snot Bubble, aren't you a little young to have a girlfriend?"

"Quit it, Pawuccio! She's not my goolfwiend! Stop being a buwwy!"

Ramberg did her best to make Snot Bubble feel better, but it was difficult with Paluccio harassing them. Apparently, though, even cooties have their breaking point.

"Danny, knock it off right now!" Ramberg shouted in his face after witnessing the application of a nasty Indian burn to Snot Bubble's left forearm. "He's a little tiny kid, and you're nothing but a left-back, stupid animal! Does it make you feel all big and important to make a little kid cry? Just leave him and everyone else alone, or I'll go right to the principal and make sure that you don't ride another school bus for the rest of your pathetic life!"

This, of course, got the attention of every single passenger on Bus 12.

"OOOH! She got YOU, Paluccio!"

"You tell 'im, Ramberg!"

"Paluccio just got BURNED!"

Danny Paluccio, to the surprise of no one, disregarded the verbal cootie-slapping, and the bus ride home that same day featured the willful destruction of a third grader's eyeglasses. True to her word, Ramberg reported him to the principal the following morning. No fewer than twenty-two additional witnesses subsequently spoke up, detailing a sordid history of prepubescent terror. Paluccio was banished from Bus 12 for the rest of the year, and eventually dropped out of high school in the middle of grade ten. No one missed him, not even Marco.

As he grew older, perhaps Barry Feldman's "Paluccio Experience" helped him develop a knack for avoiding life's less desirable seating options. When he went to the doctor's office, did he choose a solitary chair in the waiting room corner to avoid a phlegm-honking septuagenarian? Was he careful to book the aisle seat on flights so as not to be sandwiched between six hundred pounds of Phoenix-bound Shriners? I'd like to think that he'd learned from his fateful second grade blunder.

Although, given the choice between the Shriners and Danny Paluccio, I might take my chances with the fez-wearing porkers. I've got this thing against wet willies.


s

Dear Mr. Sunshine, Issue 2: The School Drop-off Line

Julie D. from Kansas City writes: 

Dear Mr. Sunshine,

I have four kids who have all received Navy-SEAL-like training on how to exit a car quickly and efficiently at the carpool drop-off line at school. They know the time for hugs, kisses, second-guessing what's in their backpacks, and unbuckling their seat belts is NOT when the car is in park and the pressure is on them to move, move, MOVE!, but rather when we are in the ready position, next in the queue for the final dropping point.

Unfortunately there are a number of parents at their school who prefer to wipe noses, tie shoes, open car doors, and hold spelling bees for their kids in the car while in park at the final dropping point. As a result, everyone behind them is delayed beyond measurable reason for school while little Johnny and little Dolly get extra pats on the head and hand-blown kisses during their valet service.

Aside from posting "Keep The Line Moving, You Wussy Parent" signs along the drop-off line, what other helpful hints do you have for encouraging parents to limit their time at the final dropping point to the very attainable seven-second maximum?

Your fan from the Midwest who, in spite of the way it might have just sounded, loves children very much,

Jules

Dear Jules,

Unfortunately, you have come across one of the few problems in this world that simply does not have a solution.  As long as there are schools, there will be idiot parents who clog up the drop-off and pick-up lines.  That's because every time a school principal (God's favorite creatures, by the way) devises a way to idiot-proof the process, a more logic-resistant species of idiot seems to evolve.  The circle of life gone haywire, if you will.

The thing is, as a loving parent who genuinely thinks about other people once in a while, you are the exception rather than the rule.  Most parents of elementary school children care about nothing beyond their own immediate needs.  If Johnny needs to finish gluing 500 sugar cubes onto his Alamo project, well, he's going to do it right there in the back of the minivan while everyone waits.  If little Susie hasn't quite finished her strawberry Poptarts and Go-gurt, she's not getting out of the car till she's done.  If that sends the rest of the drop-off line into a tizzy, well, tough patootie.

So, Jules, it's up to you and your friends to take charge and bring about positive change in the drop-off line.

First, never underestimate the power of your vehicle's horn.  Pull up behind the offending parent, and let them have it.  And don't forget, if they turn around and flip you the bird, you can then report them to the school administration for obscene gestures in the presence of children.  Or, if you're even more daring, go out and get yourself an industrial grade bullhorn, walk up to the driver's window and yell, "TIME TO MOVE ALONG!  GET THE KIDS OUT OF THE CAR AND BE ON YOUR WAY!"

If you're not the assertive or aggressive type, though, you'll just have to figure out a way to make the most of the hours you're going to spend in the drop-off line.  You might try creating a "DROP-OFF LINE BINGO" card for you and your kids to play while you wait (no point sending your kids to class when everyone else is just sitting around, right?).  Some things to put on your Bingo card are:

A goofy kid with glasses

A kid crying because he forgot his homework

An overprotective parent

An overweight teacher

A fight between students

A fight between parents

Use your imagination. As an incentive, maybe the winner of your Bingo game would get to use the bullhorn.

Sorry I can't be more helpful here, Jules, but asinine parents are a breed apart from normal human beings.  Aside from just shooting them, there's not a lot that can be done.

Hey, now THERE'S a thought . . .

Sincerely,

Mr. Sunshine



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