Riding high on the downlow

Well today is the first day of my new rules for this class of freshmen. There are a lot of good kids in the 9th grade class, but the maturity level is something you would find in a your average 3rd grade room. My old method of pushing the responsibility on to the students to get them to realize that they had to grow up, just wasn’t working for this batch which is unfortunate because that is really the easiest way for them to go.

I’ve had to institute some draconian rules regarding passes and tardies that I haven’t ever had to do before. If you knew how much I hate making rules for the sake of having rules then you would know that this is not a decision I made lightly.

The one thing that keeps letting me know I’m on the right path is there are a few students in the room that seem to actually be glad that I’m not putting up with some of the nonsense that was so frequently associated with this class in the past. Those students are really stepping up and doing far better and taking far more pride in their work than I had seen from them at the beginning of the year.

We’ll see if that continues or not. I know that a lot of what I wrote is very vague, but I’m not all that comfortable speaking of my students in a public forum. Suffice it to say that I do what I do for the good of the student and not because I like to lord some sort of fictional authority over them.


Oh! Splenda!

I had to go to an educational conference today.  The following is a list of excerpts I jotted down in my notebook to keep myself from going insane.  Anyone who has ever been to a conference that is mind numbingly boring ought to be able to identify with a few of the disjointed thoughts that popped into my disjointed head during the proceedings.

The following was penned after I heard a fellow teacher comment when she saw the diet coke cans supplied at the conference had the logo for the artificial sweetener, Splenda, splashed all over the side of the can.   A five minute conversation on how surprising that was to all the fat out of shape old teachers ensued that was so achingly moronic that….well just read my notes:

Begin disjointed thoughts list:

I need to stab this pen into my temple.  Oh!  Splenda!  Holy-o-fuck.  How long has this shit been available?  Since 2005?  You don’t grocerey shop?  Go to convenience stores?  You’ve never seen this shit?  How can you not notice a new addition to a product line as ubiquitous as Coke?  Oohs and aaahs abounded throughout the whole conversation debating whether they would ever be able to make the switch to the new version of diet coke.  When I thought I was done listening to it…it moved into another lengthy conversation on the variety of bagels that exist.

I’m about to suffer death by inane insubstanial conversation.

Great.  Now we are looking at pictures of relatives.  So we get to see pictures of people we don’t give a shit about being presented by people we don’t give a shit about.  That makes it “don’t give a shit about” squared I believe.

There’s got to be a cliff in here.  Please let there be a cliff in this room I can hurl myself from.

That overhead computer projector has been on all day long.  Nothing has been shown on it.  Do they know the bulbs cost $300-500 each?

I no longer want to stab myself in the temple.  Instead I want to get shanked in the abdomen and slowly bleed out as my bowels empty into my pants just so my last moments are more pleasurable than listening to these ladies.

If I had lived my entire life as a shut-in and been home schooled by a retarded parrot, I still wouldn’t find anything these people are discussing remotely interesting.

Can you feel an aneurysm coming on?

I wonder if I started jerking off if anyone would notice.

Right now I would rather have a yeti give me a prostate exam with his foot while using beach sand for lube than sit here any longer.

This drop ceiling gives me nothing to throw a noose around.

What would Clint Eastwood Do?

Why is she talking to me?  I’m going to have to work on my look of utter disdain.

I’m waiting for someone to tell me to stop spitting n my cup.  I have a chew in.
“Would you please stop doing that!  It’s disgusting!”

“I will stop chewing if you work on being a little less fat and disgusting.  It’s really bothering me.  While you’re at it, try to work on being less tedious, too.  I think that will work for you in the long run.”

I’d rather have Dr. Mengele pull my ball hairs out one at a time with fishing pliers than be here.  I’ll even throw in all the follicles on my taint, just get me out.

I’m going to fake a seizure.  No, they’ll call an ambulance.  Shit.  What is plan B?

These new state requirements are as ridiculous as a monkey fucking a jug.

I would rather eat bleu cheese out of Rosie O’Donnell’s ass than be here.  No, I wouldn’t.

If you beat my cerebral cortex with a stocking full of jacks, I couldn’t be in more mental distress than I am right now.

I’ve never wanted to swap places with Steve Irwin until this moment.

If I killed the guy who hosts “Dirty Jobs” what are the odds I’d be hired to replace him?

I would rather have worm infested gorillas pelting me with their feces while I was tied naked to a stake than be here.

I’m walking up the down escalator

I think I just got stupider overhearing that conversation.

This is like trying to fuck with a JATO strapped to your back.

How do you know you’re alive?

I bleed to know I’m alive.  Every day my heart beats, by lungs pulse, my limbs move, my brain fires.  How come I don’t know I’m alive until I bleed?  Some days the sun shines.  Sometimes I laugh.  Most times I don’t.  Some days my bones ache.  Sometimes flexing my muscles feels good.  I have just existed every day of my life.

So how come I have to bleed to be alive?  Why does it take a bloodletting for me to ponder the hard questions?  Why do I have to stand on the apex of the fulcrum, teetering one way or the other before I realize that life and the way I feel is important to me?  

I could be what I want or I could just continue.  I can risk or exist.  What do I need?  What do I want?  Where do those two things intersect?  Do they intersect?

Bleeding doesn’t have to leave a scar.  Too many choose to let the bleed limit them.  It weakens them to the point they are afraid to reach higher.  I choose not to do that.  When a bone breaks, the process of healing actually makes the bone stronger than before.  That’s what the bleed will do for me.  My base will thicken and expand.  I will reach beyond, reach farther than I ever thought I could.  I refuse to be otherwise.  I don’t want to exist.  I want to be alive and that is my choice.

I am bone.

Ever Get Your Ass Kicked by a Six Year Old?

I’ve got nothing too clever planned for this entry, but the important part is I get back to writing at this point so here goes:

Ever get your ass kicked by a six year old? Me neither, but at times like yesterday I was certainly glad that six year olds are physically weaker than adults. I hung my heavy and striking bags last night. The kid was there with me the whole way. After taking some time adjusting things and showing her how to tape her hands, she and I went ten three minute rounds. She hung with me the whole way and then embarrassed me by doing a minute’s worth of jumping jacks between rounds while I was bent over panting and sweating toxins out of my body.

This all evolved after being able to excavate all my ex-wife’s stuff from the basement. And by “stuff” I mean “absolute shitpile.” I now have room for this equipment that I always wanted. See I’m not negative all the time. I’m actually enjoying having a clean house. What’s even better, when I leave the house and it’s clean…when I come back to it…it’s still clean. Really cool stuff and a nice change for me.

I’ll continue to be positive. I need the practice at it. I’ll even thank myspace. Because of myspace, I know what the guy looks like that was bumping uglies with my wife which adds a considerable edge to my basement pummeling sessions. Since I left my heavy bag outside for the duration of my summer regimen, my waterlogged 75 lb bag weighs about 125 right now and it makes this really cool “smwhack” whenever I tag it well. I like to picture blood exploding from a certain nose whenever a cross registers and rattles the floor beam my bag is attached to. Immature? Yeah, but I get some slack due my circumstances don’t I? The bag sessions work better than my xanax anyways.

I’m not much a braggart and I know the old adage about “the bigger they are, the harder they fall” and all that, but I’ve been doing this stuff for years and I can set down on and throw a pretty decent punch if I say so myself. Aside from that, and this runs in the male side of my family…I kinda have what is known as retard strength when I get angry. So sometimes I go to sleep at night imagining what would happen if fuckface and I ever crossed paths. That will never happen. Not much good ever happens to me.

Okay, back to trying to be positive. Oh, regarding the single life. Y’know I’m not the anti-Christ my ex made me believe I was. Apparently there’s room for an educated nice guy that doesn’t look quite as ugly as a bag of hammers in the single world. I’ve even met a couple of women who actually treat me like I may be an enjoyable sort to hang around with. Seems, my ex was the only one treated me like an asshole. So it’s nice to be out from under that and begin building my self-esteem back up.

Anyways, back to the six year old. Check out these pics. I know in that one pic she missed with that straight right, but check out the intensity in her gaze and notice she’s not hitting with the palm side of the fist. She’s got those knuckles squared and ready to remove some offender’s teeth. That punch is a fat lip for some kid that pisses her off in the future. Do you want to face off with her? I thought not. My goal is to train her enough so she can kick the living shit out of any boy she dates. Hope you are ready for her boys. It will be a few years before I have to worry about that, but by then she’ll be prepared.

I WILL meet all of her dates before they go out. Whoa to the first teenager who picks up my daughter and sits in the car in the driveway and honks the horn. If I get enough advance warning of the date, my plan is to be outside with my shirt off splitting wood with my 16 lb moll. If he has the balls to get past the pre-date interview with me, then I guess I’ll let him have a shot taking my kid out.

I love my kid. She’s been through enough pain these past months due to no fault of her own and no fault of mine so I have to admit I’m feeling a little overprotective lately.

It was just a great time yesterday in the basement. The kid and I both hitting those bags at the same time was pure pleasure. I wonder if she was thinking about that fuckface from myspace, too? I know it takes two to tango and that my ex was equally at fault for the indiscretions, but I’ve never been a big fan of hitting women…even the ones who deserve it; so I’ll have to content myself with sickly macabre thoughts of pulling this guy’s limbs off one at a time and eating his still beating heart while it pumps blood down my chest. Ahhhhh, that thought makes me feel warm inside. Like Christmas morning.