Hopelessly Devoted

Apples to Apples is one of my favorite games ever. For those who are unfamiliar with the game, it involves matching Noun cards to Adjective cards with hilarious results. My favorite moment ever (with a close second being when Oraine misread H.M.O.s as "homos") was a heated game in Bloomfield. For this particular round, I was the judge, meaning I had the discretion of deciding which noun matched my adjective, Hopeless, best. As everyone searched for a good match in their respective hands, Yana, who needed just one more point to win the game, began to cackle as she put down her card. I shuffled the entries and, though I vowed to be an impartial judge, did not want to choose Yana's card and terminate the game. When I started reading the options aloud, however, I knew which one hers must be. Still, in the name of all things funny, I had to choose it. After all, what Noun best embodies Hopeless? Why, Helen Keller of course.

Poor Helen Keller. That person sure can't catch a break. Even from a student of mine, who suggested in a persuasive essay that we bring Helen Keller to come speak at a school assembly. How exactly could she come to speak? Aside from being deaf, she's also thoroughly dead. Regardless, I'm sure she'd be an inspiration. As the student points out, "Helen Keller shows us even if your blind, def. and retarded, you still can succed." Let's not let "retarded" overshadow the adorable representation of Keller's deafness with the abbreviation of the word "definitely." But still, retarded? Really? I'll say it again, this person sure can't catch a break. Hopeless, indeed.

Fuck?

Michael Michael and I are making hot fudge sundaes. Well, technically, Michael Michael is making a cold fudge sundae, while I'm taking the time to heat up the chocolate. In one of my finer moments, I think it might be a good idea to heat it up in the microwave after it's already on the ice cream, but thankfully I reconsider before the execution. Retrieving my finished, heated chocolate, I accidentally drop the bowl because it's so hot and scream, "Oh fudge!"

Unintentional puns are the best.

Dodge 'Er

Michael Michael is celebrating the prospect of getting playoff tickets to a Mets/Dodgers game.

Amber: Oh wow, the Dodgers are in the playoffs?!
Michael Michael: Yeah, but I'm excited about the Mets!
Amber: What? Go Dodgers!
Michael Michael: (disgusted) The Dodgers? Why do you care?
Amber: Hello! L.A.!
Michael Michael: Do you even know where the Dodgers were originally from?
Amber: No.
Michael Michael: Brooklyn.
Amber: Yeah, but they've been in L.A. for a long time.
Michael Michael: 40 years.
Amber: Anything that happened more than 40 years ago doesn't matter!

So says the history teacher.

Running Out of Time

Last weekend, Jessica and I hit the thrift stores for the purpose of buying books for classroom liberries. We each found some real good steals, but Jessica hit the gold mine with one particular find, Running out of Time. Take a moment to read the back cover:

"I may have to ask you to do something very dangerous," Ma said."

Jessie's mother is desperate, for the children of Clifton are dying, and in 1840, there is no medicine to help them. This leads her to reveal an enormous secret to Jessie: It is actually 1996, and they are living in a reconstructed village that serves as a tourist site. She asks Jessie to do something that will put her life in jeopardy: to escape into the outside world to get help, before the children run out of time.

This revelation turns the world as Jessie knows it upside down. Her odyssey becomes a gripping page-turner that combines the fascination of a mystery, the power of a historical fiction, and the wonderment of science fiction. Like Jessie, who must come to terms with a world she has never known, readers of Running Out of Time are challenged to look at their own world in a new way.

That is the most amazing plot I have ever heard of; even though Jessica has no spare time in her life right now, she made time to read this book and swears it is every bit as stupendous as the description might lead you to believe. Knowing that this piece of fiction exists makes me that much more excited to live in the world.

The following paragraph contains a movie spoiler. Highlight the white text if you're brave enough to read it:

When Kline got a rundown on the book's premise, she revealed that that was essentially the twist in the film, The Village. After doing some research, I found out that the publishers of Running Out of Time sued M. Night Shyamalan for stealing their story. I don't know the specifics, but it certainly was a story worth stealing! I remember when a friend of mine watched the movie, ey expressed thanks that I hadn't been able to watch it with em because I would have "made fun of it" the whole time. Indeed, I would have, because the premise is ridiculously enjoyable.

Put Them in Their Place

I'm a phenomenal teacher. I'm so devoted to my profession as an English educator that I've started vandalizing. Large signs at my school advertise "DANCE TONITE" and I can't help but sharpie a thick line through the "TE" and write in "GHT." Let's not think of it as vandalism, but large scale editing. Never mind the fact that I have to "edit" discreetly and act like nothing's up when someone walks by.

It's all about putting students in their place. Frequently, my students forget their textbooks. I can't let one student go to the lockers to get it, or then I'll have to let ten of them leave class for the same purpose. After unsuccessfully begging me to let her get her textbook, Lenore* asks if she can use the restroom. "If you're only using the restroom," I stipulate. Lenore assures me that that's the case, however, moments later shows up with a book in hand. "Looks like Lenore likes to read on the toilet," I announce to my class. Lenore turns various shades of red; she won't be lying to me again soon.

I almost always let students use the restroom when they ask; I don't want to burst any bladders. Unfortunately, their laxness on my part means that everyone is asking to use the bathroom, though I only let one student go at a time. After one student comes back, she hands the pass to Monique*. Manuel* complains that he was next. I support him, explaining that I had said Manuel was first. Monique gripes, "Excuse me, haven't you ever heard of ladies first!" "Ladies first has nothing to do with bladder control," I retort, irritated. "Yeah, but ladies have cycles!" she tries. "I understand that," I counter. "But certain students in this class ask to leave like they're cycling every other day." The class erupts at my slam. A word of advice to fellow teachers: if you make a menstruation joke, the class is bound to get off track.

I Didn't Project That

My principal came to perform eir first unannounced formal evaluation of me yesterday. As soon as ey walked through the door, I panicked and questioned whether the lesson I had prepared was impressive enough. My students were unusually well behaved, unsurprising considering the presence in the classroom. I plugged the overhead projector into the wall and rolled it to the center of the room. I hadn't used the thing before, not even to test it out, so I worried that it might not work or have some kind of technical difficulty. Fortunately it powered on just fine and I nervously began my lesson. Just as I noticed that a funny smell was permeating, a student in the front row announced, "The thing's smoking!" I turned and saw that, indeed, the overhead was dispelling copious amounts of smoke. I feverishly tried to find the problem, ultimately discovering that there was a piece of foam attached to the light bulb (I presume to protect it during shipping), which had caught on fire. Quickly, I yanked it off the machine and clapped the flame out, though smoke continued to billow. "Mr. [Kevin] made a boo boo!" I awkwardly apologized to the class, avoiding eye contact with the principal out of embarrassment. More on the edge than ever, I continued with my lesson, pushing through the numerous complaints about the burning odor. And no, I'm not sure whether the principal was one of the gripers.

Ah, there's nothing like a good first impression! Only a truly competent teacher like myself could start a fire in eir classroom with the prinicipal watching.

Necrophili-yeah!

For a variety of reasons, while waiting for America's Next Top Model to start earlier tonight, I started pantomiming what it would look like if I was to have sex with a disembodied head. You know, the usual. As Amy watched in horror, Jessica, bless her heart, just laughed. Looking for an expert opinion, I asked Jessica for a scientific explanation for necrophilia. Sitting me down, she deadpans, "Well, it all starts when two people really love each other... and one of them is dead."

An Andrew One-Liner

Andrew: "You're not an organ donor? That's ironic considering you break so many hearts."

Crusty

Every few weeks, when the food doesn't make itself, and often it doesn't, my housemates and I have an easy fix: pizza. Just a quarter mile down the road, Little Caesars has a special offer where for five dollars, they'll hand you a large cheese or pepperoni pizza on the spot. This superb deal is called "Hot and Ready."

After Shea picked us up a pie last night, we sang the praises of the Hot and Ready. "Hot and ready," Shea smiled. "Just the way I like my women." Laughing, I tried to come up with my own women/pizza analogy. "I like my women covered in sauce... and crusty." There was a collective wince at the word crusty.

That's right. I like 'em crusty.

Horatio's Brother

On my way to sign my contract a few weeks ago, I stopped at the bank. There, I ran into Andrew, who had escorted a couple of British exchange students to sort out some financial matters. I shared my good news of employment with the three of them; they probed me with questions to get more information. The half dozen other people sitting in the little waiting area were also listening pretty intently, probably intrigued that someone who looks fourteen could actually be a teacher of fourteen-year-olds.

Anyway, I left them to take care of business (that's banking business, not business business), but on my way out, I went to say goodbye, and heard the two exchange students repeatedly saying "fellatio," which becomes that much more intriguing of a word when said with a British accent.

"Kevin," Andrew looked to me for help. "What is the American colloquialism for fellatio?" I glanced at all the people still sitting in the waiting area, which included children and senior citizens. Though I was prepared to offer up "giving head" or "blowjob," (and by that I mean the words, not the acts), there was no way I could do that in front of mixed company, particularly mixed company that just heard the name of the high school for which I would be working. "I'm not touching that!" I said, backing toward the door. "Please!" Andrew pleaded. As much as I'd have loved to discuss oral sex with exchange students, I'm a teacher. There are certain rules of conduct.

Recounting this story to four friends all sprawled out on my beautiful bed, we all started saying "fellatio" in our best British accents, in the same manner I still find myself mimicking, "When are you ever going to need to say Plexiglas?" with a German accent. Hearing us from the next room, Kline comes in and starts imitating as well. After getting a few in, she stops to ask, "Fellatio? Is that Horatio's brother?" Everyone laughs until Kline admits that that was a legitimate guess and that she really doesn't know what fellatio means. Of course, I figure she must be kidding, so I continue to laugh, going so far to actually point at her while I laugh. As I soon discover, however, Kline really doesn't know the word fellatio, so I step in and offer up some synonyms, like giving head and blowjob.

After all, as an educator, it is my job to promote vocabulary development. Still, there are certain circumstances where it is more appropriate than others to teach about oral sex. Like lying in bed, for instance.

This Just Might Be My Most Concise Blog Title That I Have Ever, in My History of Blogging, Created

Kevin: The funny thing is, even though I'm supposed to give her extra time, she doesn't write that much. She's usually done way faster than the others. That's not to say it's bad, it's often thoughtful, it just tends to be concise.
Michael Michael: Being concise is hard. I didn't learn how to do that until my senior year of high school.
Kevin: I still don't know how to be concise! If I'm going to write something good, it's going to be long. It's like I don't know how to make a point without being very wordy and describing it in great detail. The more I say, the better I feel about it and the more I want to elaborate about it... (noticing Michael Michael's eyes starting to glaze over)... kind of like I'm doing right now.

Vagina Lips Donkey

My new favorite hobby is cleaning out my trash can at school. That basket is a certifiable gold mine. As I've discovered, students write notes during my class, then toss them on their way out the door. The things I've learned about my students in this context is rather valuable: I know who is planning to drink this weekend, who is bisexual, and who is considering losing their virginity. Not to mention who is not paying attention during my class. Though I've seen notes badmouthing other teachers, it's been several days of checking before I've found the inevitable criticism of me. The following crumpled up note is an exchange between two students:

I've been kinda bored... what about you

Same as you. Yea this class is pretty boring.

I kno... dat teacher's a vagina lips donkey... watta weirdo

haha. lol Your mean He isn't a whatever u said haha. I think he's an okay teacher He's been pretty cool.

I kno... I was kidden... he cool... lol...

Well, it could have been worse. I may be a weirdo (which I'll gladly own up to), but I'm "pretty cool" too. Awww! I'll take my validation wherever I can get it, even if it does follow being called a vagina lips donkey. If it were even a tad more appropriate, I'd be tempted to ask the question "What is a donkey lips vagina?" on the next test just to watch those two students wince in their chairs. In the meantime, we clearly have a lot of work to do on spelling, punctuation, and creating sensical insults.

*The photo, of course, is of Donkey Lips from Nickelodeon's Salute Your Shorts, though the student is much too young to understand that reference.

A Well-Rounded Relationship

While having a discussion with a friend about his long term significant other:

R: (taking out a picture) Hey, do you think she has a round head?
K: Umm, yeah, I guess I see that.
R: See? She has a round head!
K: Does it bother you or something?
R: I know this is going to make me sound shallow, but I'm not sure I can date her.
K: You would break up with her because she has a round head?!
R: I don't know. Maybe. It's just so round...
K: That is shallow!
R: Hey!
K: I would have never noticed if you hadn't mentioned it first.
R: Me either! It would have been fine, except that she brought it up a few weeks ago. Now it's like I'm kissing a basketball.

Caught with My Pants Down

I've having bathroom problems at work. Before you quickly close your browser, I promise that this post is not about diarrhea.

For the first few days, I had to use the student bathroom. Naturally, this situation was unacceptable as I am "better than" the students, plus I get remarkable stage fright when next to someone at the urinal. Fortunately, an empty office located near my classroom has been unlocked for the staff's benefit. The empty office features both a men and women's restroom, which are completely identical aside from the sign on the door. Twice now when I've found the men's bathroom occupied, I've decided to take the liberty of using the women's restroom. Both times I have done so, however, I've been caught. The first time, I made a quick apology and excuse to the woman waiting outside to use the toilet. The second time, thinking no one was in the vicinity, I sang and talked aloud to myself while pooping. Emerging from the restroom, a woman standing just feet away from the door, probably embarrassed on my behalf, avoided eye contact with me. Oh, like she doesn't sing while she's taking a crap when she thinks she's alone.

Today took the cake, however. I used the men's room, as it was unoccupied, but I somehow managed to forget to lock the door behind me. (In truth, I suppose I almost never actually lock the door.) While in the wiping phase, another teacher I know only by recognition walked in on me. In that quick "AAHHH" moment, he saw both my penis and my dirty ass. We both apologize profusely as we try to remedy the situation. Unfortunately, it can't really be remedied.

He quickly closed the door and I had not intention of opening it again anytime soon. Firstly, I dreaded the awkward second exchange that would have to happen, and was not ready to emerge. Secondly, he probably got a better view of how dirty my butt hole was and, in case it was quite a mess, I wanted to make sure he would believe I cleaned up properly. Thirdly, I needed to exaggerate the time I took to wash my hands, including lots of loud scrubbing sound effects. Once I felt strong and prepared enough to take my exit, I opened the door and winced in anticipation. Alas, I discovered he was not there. Where did he go? I wondered. That's when I heard him -- humming in the women's restroom.

1-800-ZZZZZZZ

Teaching stresses me out. I dream about having to be responsible and disciplining constantly. On Saturday night, after trying to teach Bosco the nuances of fetch only to find he'd prefer to lick my crotch, I started passing out on the kitchen floor. Appropriately, Michael Michael coaxed me into bed. I'm not exactly sure what I proceeded to dream about, but a few hours later in some hazy daze, I recall calling Michael Michael on his cell phone, inquiring about the whereabouts of a student. I was panicking, and said I knew where Michael Michael and Preston were, but where was the "other one?" Naturally, Michael Michael was confused, and told me that he thought everything was fine. "But he left me a note" I insisted. Michael Michael said it was okay and to go back to bed. Even in my semiconscious state, I started to pick up on his slightly amused tone and that he was merely appeasing me. Embarrassed, I hung up. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what I had been talking about, so I went back to sleep.

You've all heard of sleep talking. You've all heard of drunk dialing. But that, folks, might be one of the first recorded cases of sleep dialing.