School Memories


Cannibalism is like punching your friend in high school. It’s a terrible idea unless you want to get someone expelled.

Since I’m not going anywhere in life, let’s talk about my past. We’re going back to school. Preschool, that is. Preschool actually doesn’t make sense as a word if you think about it, but I assure you that’s not relevant to this post.

I hated preschool. All the creative kids are finger painters, but if I finger painters there’s court hearings and prison and signs in my yard. I don’t need more shit to mow around; I don’t even have a weed eater.

I think the reason I hate preschool so much is because I hate children. Children are like savings bonds — nobody likes them, and they’re completely useless until they mature.

Don’t get offended by that, either. You’ve hated every kid you’ve seen since you were 6 years old. Family doesn’t count; you’re obligated to ‘like’ them. Not me, though. I hate every kid I’ve ever seen.

I have a 10-month-old nephew who recently discovered the stairs to the basement. You’re damn right I kicked him down. He was protected by the stupid metal plate in his head… from the last time I kicked him down some stairs.

Calm down, child lovers. I assure you, these are jokes. I love babies. They’re just like Etch-A-Sketches. If you make a mistake, you just shake them, and it all goes away.

Where was I? Oh, school, that’s right. I think we all hated school to some extent, but I really hated it. Specifically, math. I’ll give you a great example of why I hated math — my Holy Trinity of Comedy growing up was George Carlin and Rodney Dangerfield. That’s it. You can probably see the problem, and if you can’t, you shouldn’t have skipped class with me.

I thought I would sleep with a teacher to get better grades, and everyone was like, “But you’re homeschooled by your grandparents!” Whatever. I got an A.

Talking about school often leads to stuff like, Who was your best teacher? And which teacher slept with the most students? And how did that really stupid girl pass chemistry? You know, that sort of stuff.

One day in class, one of the kids comes in about five minutes late and immediately yells out, “Who wants to give me a blowjob?” One of the girls immediately responded, “Sure, I’ll bite.” Probably not the response he was looking for, and totally innapropriate of Mrs. Foster. I didn’t have a teacher named Mrs. Foster. It was Smith, and everyone knew they always met before class anyway.

Getting back on the subject of actually learning, I probably learned more in shop than any other class. My shop teacher was a Vietnam veteran, and he was a great teacher. We all left with more respect, a general knowledge of handiness and at least nine fingers.

I learned the metric system in shop. Not because of measurements or anything; my teacher was my dealer.

Shop was safer than most people always imagine, too. I was only lit on fire once. It wasn’t with a torch or welding or anything, I Richard Pryor’d myself in one of the welding bays.

In a properly written essay, this would be the paragraph where you wrap everything up. I, however, am not going to do that.

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