Don't all those states down South say, "At least we ain't Mississippi!!"??
Mississippi the Ol'Buzzard
I mean ... you could say that about almost any school in the SEC .. 'cept for maybe Vahn-dair-bilk
Squat. OK, but who is forty-leventh? This reminds me of that one time back to third grade when I misspelled forty-ninth by writing--in my at-the-time gigantic handwriting--the word as "fourty-ninth", after having written "fiftieth" when standing at the front of the room, chalk in hand."Alaska isn't the fiftieth state, Mr. Johnson, it's the forty-ninth. Now write 'forty-ninth' one hundred times." That was Leticia Browningwell, the teaching bain of my childhood existance."And spell it, you disruptive little shit, don't you dare just write the nimbers."I'd written "fourty-ninth" maybe forty-nine times, when Susie Ashburn pipes up from her seat in the front row. "Mooner is butchering the English language again, Mrs. Browningwell. Make him spell it correctly."As Butcher was my actual given name, and Mooner the moniker graced upon me for my habit, I barked my jeans and underwear to my ankles and showed the classroom what my Gram called, "Mooner's got him a right cute little bottom."And that reminds me to call my mother.Fuck Walmart!
Mooner, that reminds me of my first glimpse of trouble with organized public school education.I was in the second grade and the teacher was trying to get us to understand and write proper sentence structure. She told us every sentence had to end with a period. She also told us that if our sentence as too long for the line on the paper, we were to drop down a line and continue the sentence there.I found myself writing the same sentence over and over in some sort of punishment mode to please her grumpy ass, and ran out of room at the end of every line. So I put the period on the next line, like she'd just told us to do: If you run out of room, finish your sentence on the next line.Made perfect sense to me. I had complete sentences on one line, but put the period on line two... as instructed.She brought me up in front of the class to write the sentences over and over on the chalkboard (which didn't have fucking lines, so I couldn't demonstrate my newfound grammatical structure for space constraints).Same woman took a wooden plank to my ass later the same week because I tried to go back into the school for my lunchbox during a fire drill. I'd gotten whacked at home for forgetting that fucking lunchbox two days in a row, and I thought the bell ringing and everyone leaving the school meant the day was done and we were going home... and damned if I was gonna forget that goddam lunchbox again.... so I turned around and swam upstream against the fire drill's orderly exit from the building...Hated every minute of school after that.Funny what we remember fifty years later, isn't it?
That Browningwell bitch should'a been tyin' an' gaggin' that werthless ass husband a'hers up and a'whuppin' HIS sorry ass. Fucker ....and Squat ...you might'a been better off with the Penguins.
and props to yer momma, Mooner ....
Squat and Beej. As with some teachers, I think Mrs. Browningwell took her personal axes and ground them on the asses of her charges. Not casting teachers in a bad light as a group, but we all had one of those teachers who seemed to in the wrong profession.My own mother was beloved at her various teaching and administrative duties. Sister once told me that Mother brought her axes back to the ranch each nite to grind them there to home.Speaking of which, time to dial the 210 Area Code.Fuck Walmart once, and again!
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