Posted by: malpants15 | June 22, 2009

On the Use of Dicks in 2D

Me, loving fun.

Me, loving fun.

June 17, 2009 10:46 AM:   “I’m on dick picture prevention duty. The kids say I hate fun.”


I sat in the same high school science classroom in which I had once taken honors physics trying to prevent my brain from exploding, not from trig functions but because of the 25 teenagers calling each other gay and plotting to wang the entire room. I rapidly texted my friends during prep periods to make sure the outside world still existed and to make sure that no, I am not a miserable woman who needs to get laid. Or that I was, but that had nothing to do with me telling that kid he couldn’t go to the gym to play pingpong instead of doing his work. I had composed flawless lab reports directly where a pimply vocational school reject sporting gray jorts was uncovering his new tattoo: his last name vertically down his shin. When I yelled at him by name to get out of my class when he returned later that day, he could not figure out how I could have possibly known what to call him. “Really?” I asked, “You really have no idea? Blame it on parental consent.” This only served to further confuse him, so I explained that the lack of leg hair on his gams probably didn’t fool the local inskman. His nervous laugh told me I was still being too vague. “It’s tattooed on your leg.”

I have had many jobs that underpaid my skills, but none that actually punished me for my efforts. That is until I answered the 5:30am call to arms for a day at my alma mater. Piece of cake. I could finally read those books I skimmed through during finals week while 15 year olds, past those days of early onset boobs when deodorant was a new and oft forgotten routine, would diligently complete their study guides so that they would not fall behind while their poor teacher was ripped from them by some overwhelming disease. I’d be laid back, the cool sub whose witty insights to teacher’s former weight problems and acquaintances with older siblings would buy me relative calm and safety in the hall. Day four I had resource kids and managed to survive, so what could they throw me that could do any damage in a 46 minute period?

The call came as a favor. My former track coach had personally requested me! Great, another day I was paid to watch a math/science related television show for five periods. I knew my coach was a little lax in his rules, but after 7 days I had a reputation and moderate support from the chain smoking rebel underachievers that granted me mild control over my students. Period one some of the kids rolled in with breakfast, but they cleaned up after themselves and pretended to watch CSI. Maybe there were rules here and I was simply anxious about Grisham calculating accurate corpse decay through fly larvae. I was halfway to lunch when my five worst nightmares strolled in and wasted almost no time equipping themselves with permanent markers and tape. Review sheets? Hardly. These white pages were apparently made specifically for drawing inaccurately proportioned male genitalia and stuck so well onto the picture of the teacher’s daughter.

The only words that floated through the air involved dick, gay, or dick, while my sentences, composed mostly of stop, please, and I quit evaporated like so many tuition dollars. “Gay? Physics are gay? I believe you mean physics is gay, as physics is a proper noun for a subject and not the plural of a physic! Silly you. What? Oh grammar is gay? True, grammar has been known to canoodle with grammar of the same gender…No that was a joke pointing out your inability to come up with accurate adjectives…No, an adjective is a descriptive word, you’re thinking…You’re right, physics are gay.”

I attempted to discuss the complexities of the immigrant debate in response to a racial slur directed at a student, who instead of explaining its inaccuracies, joined in on his own mockery. After my brain turned back on, I repeatedly told one student whose face had lost to a staple gun to please find a seat, any seat, until he attempted to sit on my lap, at which point I was forced to choke back tears and assess how I could possibly have lost this much control and, more importantly, how the school had let these kids get so confident in their defiance. I eventually allowed a picture to be taped to the inside of a drawer, knowing I could take it out when the failed pull-out methods left, and placed my forehead firmly on top of my copy of Hemingway’s short stories. “What are you reading?” I had been asked. “Heming…Twilight. Totally better than the movie.”

The final bell rang and I sprinted to the office to sign out, glaring at the administrative representatives. I didn’t say anything though, because I had been taught not to sass authority. My classmates and I had, for the most part, respected our elders, even our subs, including the one who simply wrote “NO” on the blackboard and read his paper the entire class.  I was stopped, however, on my way out, not because someone wanted to let me know my tail was firmly between my legs but because I had forgotten my paycheck.  Finally, a beacon.  I tore it open with renewed vigor on my way past two greasy band kids making out next to the art room.  Compensation for my headache, for my failed efforts, for my avoidance of homicide!  And there it was.  $70 each day, pre-tax.  125 kids…that worked out to 56 cents a kid, not including hall duty when I tried unsuccessfully to prevent kids from leaving the building.  I suddenly had the urge to wang every car in the administration parking lot. 



  1. You know, they’re right. Physics are gay. Both Newtonian and Quantum. I saw them… well, you don’t want to know what I saw them doing last night.

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