I’ve always suspected that English teachers belong to a secret and cruelly-intentioned society, whose only purpose is to embarrass and bewilder the rest of us. One of my English teachers had mastered the tactics of this imagined society. I’m certain he was a high-ranking official, at least in the American-English sect of the cult.
Mr. McDole relished hearing the bell that signaled the start of class, when he would chuckle to himself as he surveyed the class with a devilish smirk. He always spoke as if auditioning for a Shakespearean play, with every word being the shouted word - to ensure that all of his audience (and maybe a few out in the street) could savor the perfection with which he delivered his lines.
Each day, Mr. McDole’s class seemed to play out in the same degrading fashion. We were: Incompetent Buffoons, Scurvy Knaves, or one of my personal favorites, “Insignificant Sons of (what you will).”
Class would begin with some Shakespearean-like pontification from Mr. McDole, followed by a question. We always thought this question was somehow related to what he had just been talking about - we weren’t sure.
McDole’s question would be followed by all of us want-wits slouching down in our chairs, scrunching our eyes closed, and making powerful contortic efforts to retract our heads into our necks. This went hand-in-hand with chanting, “Not me…Not me…,” under our collective breath.
Next, Mr. McDole would choose his victim and, true to his oath of fidelity to the secret society, impale the sufferer with a Shakespearean-style barb, quickly expanding his fusillade to include the entire class:
McDole shouting: Provide the subject in the following sentence. “Jim escorted Penny to the theatre.”
(Sound of slouching, head retracting and a strange murmuring hum)
McDole, shouting: Mr. Snodgrass!
Doug Snodgrass: (Incoherent, muffled sounds coming from the top of Doug’s neck.)
McDole, shouting: SPEAK! You Impertinent Toad-Spotted Idiot!
Doug: (Head popping up just long enough to respond with a question of his own), “Jim?”
McDole, shouting: Wrong! Mangled, Weather-Beaten Gudgeon! The correct answer is Penny!
McDole, shouting: Miss Morgan! Subject of the following sentence please, “James escorted Penelope to the theatre.”
Startled, Jackie Morgan’s head accidentally pops out of her neck and (almost crying) she responds, “Penelope?”
McDole, shouting: Why must you insist on demonstrating that you are a Beetle-Headed Skainsmate!?! WRONG!
Now Jackie is really crying because she doesn't know what a skainsmate is… none of us do.
Mr. McDole would then turn on the rest of the class and begin shouting even more vehemently, “The lot-of-you are nothing more than Beef-Witted Miscreants and Dog-Hearted Malt worms!” And thus the days would pass in Mr. McDole’s class.
I was one of the lucky ones - I’m pretty sure he liked me. I might even go so far as to say I was one of his favorites. You see, Mr. McDole knew he could always count on me to hold up under the rigors of his bombastic barrage of questions until, overwhelmed, I would shout back, “I just don’t know Mr. McDole!”
To surrender an “I don’t know” was openly admitting inferiority to all members in the sect, and this at the hands of one of its leading disciples. I could tell that Mr. McDole looked upon my stoic tolerance of his abuse favorably, because the worst thing he ever called me was a “Bawdy, Pox-Marked, Hasty-Witted, Clack-Dish!”
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Chanti's Demise
“Roses are red, the rooster is dead”
She said as she cooked up the soup
Not Chanticleer! What happened my dear?
“He was offed by the chicks in the coop”
“It seems he forgot and was henpecked to death
So the scene did appear that I found
He had failed to remember, and clucked his last breath
I have noticed it’s going around!”
What could Chanti forget? His head’s really quite good!
Or at least it had been when he had it
But now he is gone, being boiled like a prawn…
Could you throw in some onion and carrots?
She grimaced then glared, I was caught in her stare
It was stink-eye like I’d never seen
And that’s when I knew, a chill raced down my spine
Déjà vu again how could it be?
Cupid’s day had near passed while I’d been out to play
With the boys at the Happy-Time Lounge
Though I’d won a big stake, playing Hold’em quite late
I could see I must go back to town
I flew out the door, time to waste I’d no more
It was Valentine’s Day, I now knew it
And if I should fail I’d enjoy no more ale
With my friends and they’d all say I blew it
It was late, as I said, and I surveyed my head
For just what I might do to make right
Knowing not what to do, I did panic it’s true!
And I made for the Open-all-Night’s
Hitting Speedway, the Duke, Dairy Mart and BP
For a gift that spoke romance, but none were to be
So I thought, “Maybe dinner romantic and light”
And I laid out my winnings to salvage the night
Normal fare would not do, all the best I’d provide
I would show my sweet peep I’m no capon
With cuisine of convenience (and not to be crude)
I drove home for romantic sensation
I laid out the vittles, the table I set
With the Slyders I’d grabbed on the way
There was Red Bull for drinking, and one could plain see
Mighty Mouse-like how I’d saved the day
Dining late in the night, she partook of my gift
With some soup on the side, it was nice
Before heading to bed, she first pointed, then said
“To the sofa, now heed my advice”
Stretching out on the couch, my thoughts wandered and trailed
Couldn’t make a good guess, at just how I had failed
It was then that it hit, like a lightning bolt strike
So men hear me now, don’t throw the dice
If you want to avoid a long string of bad nights
Make her ever so glad you’re her man
Come next Valentine’s Day, show some class, do it right
And remember Spray-Cheese-in-a-Can!
She said as she cooked up the soup
Not Chanticleer! What happened my dear?
“He was offed by the chicks in the coop”
“It seems he forgot and was henpecked to death
So the scene did appear that I found
He had failed to remember, and clucked his last breath
I have noticed it’s going around!”
What could Chanti forget? His head’s really quite good!
Or at least it had been when he had it
But now he is gone, being boiled like a prawn…
Could you throw in some onion and carrots?
She grimaced then glared, I was caught in her stare
It was stink-eye like I’d never seen
And that’s when I knew, a chill raced down my spine
Déjà vu again how could it be?
Cupid’s day had near passed while I’d been out to play
With the boys at the Happy-Time Lounge
Though I’d won a big stake, playing Hold’em quite late
I could see I must go back to town
I flew out the door, time to waste I’d no more
It was Valentine’s Day, I now knew it
And if I should fail I’d enjoy no more ale
With my friends and they’d all say I blew it
It was late, as I said, and I surveyed my head
For just what I might do to make right
Knowing not what to do, I did panic it’s true!
And I made for the Open-all-Night’s
Hitting Speedway, the Duke, Dairy Mart and BP
For a gift that spoke romance, but none were to be
So I thought, “Maybe dinner romantic and light”
And I laid out my winnings to salvage the night
Normal fare would not do, all the best I’d provide
I would show my sweet peep I’m no capon
With cuisine of convenience (and not to be crude)
I drove home for romantic sensation
I laid out the vittles, the table I set
With the Slyders I’d grabbed on the way
There was Red Bull for drinking, and one could plain see
Mighty Mouse-like how I’d saved the day
Dining late in the night, she partook of my gift
With some soup on the side, it was nice
Before heading to bed, she first pointed, then said
“To the sofa, now heed my advice”
Stretching out on the couch, my thoughts wandered and trailed
Couldn’t make a good guess, at just how I had failed
It was then that it hit, like a lightning bolt strike
So men hear me now, don’t throw the dice
If you want to avoid a long string of bad nights
Make her ever so glad you’re her man
Come next Valentine’s Day, show some class, do it right
And remember Spray-Cheese-in-a-Can!
Friday, February 6, 2009
My Drawer
At home, my personal effects are required to be neatly stowed in an assigned location. The space I’ve been allotted for these things is my drawer… one drawer… in the whole house.
This is because my wife (like most women) doesn’t want a bunch of “man-stuff” cluttering up the Martha Stewart Living mirage she’s painstakingly manufactured to fool our friends into thinking we have good taste.
My wife will tell you that she has good taste, but she makes it clear from the tone of her voice and the arch in her brow that I’m a handicap in her quest for perfection. As far as she’s concerned, my only domestic responsibility is to leave no clue that I’ve been living in my home, should I actually attempt to do so.
Her interior design efforts are focused (as nearly as I’m able to understand) on the marriage of natural and artificial lighting, coordination of tertiary colors, consultation of the latest Feng-shui charts, and ensuring that my existence doesn’t disrupt the harmony that she has fought so hard to achieve.
It’s been this way for years… my one drawer. Recently, I’ve found that I’m running out of space in my drawer. I sometimes have to jiggle the drawer to get everything to settle so I can open it. Occasionally, I’ll slip a ruler or (don’t tell her) a butter knife through the cracked opening, to move things around so I can get it opened.
I inquired about the possibility of annexing the drawer next to mine, in order that I might redistribute some of my wealth and gain more ready access. This, however, is out of the question due to the pressing need for the knick-knacks, bric-a-brac and scented paraphernalia that are in the adjacent drawer, and must remain close at hand in case of a design-emergency.
So I decided I would clean my drawer. One thing that I found, in tackling this chore, is that I really don’t need everything in my drawer.
I didn’t free-up much space when I threw out the three school-photos of children I don’t recognize. Likewise, removing the half-package of petrified Twizzlers did little to satisfy my warehousing crunch—but little by little, I was able to gain space.
What’s this? It looks like a tool (or medical device) - don’t know. Out!
Annoying cat toy - I remember hiding this! Out!
A seed catalog from 1991. Out!
Wow! Two brand new anniversary cards still in the cellophane packaging. This may explain the one-drawer system… I’d better hang onto these.
I slipped one shoestring and a broken television remote in with some of her things. This is bound to be found out, sooner of later, and will bring a lecture regarding my “knuckle-dragging-man-habits”.
Anyway, I’ve got some room in my drawer now. I’m thinking about leasing the extra space to one of my teenage sons. He’s in a pinch for space too, and refuses to clean his drawer – or anything else for that matter.
This is because my wife (like most women) doesn’t want a bunch of “man-stuff” cluttering up the Martha Stewart Living mirage she’s painstakingly manufactured to fool our friends into thinking we have good taste.
My wife will tell you that she has good taste, but she makes it clear from the tone of her voice and the arch in her brow that I’m a handicap in her quest for perfection. As far as she’s concerned, my only domestic responsibility is to leave no clue that I’ve been living in my home, should I actually attempt to do so.
Her interior design efforts are focused (as nearly as I’m able to understand) on the marriage of natural and artificial lighting, coordination of tertiary colors, consultation of the latest Feng-shui charts, and ensuring that my existence doesn’t disrupt the harmony that she has fought so hard to achieve.
It’s been this way for years… my one drawer. Recently, I’ve found that I’m running out of space in my drawer. I sometimes have to jiggle the drawer to get everything to settle so I can open it. Occasionally, I’ll slip a ruler or (don’t tell her) a butter knife through the cracked opening, to move things around so I can get it opened.
I inquired about the possibility of annexing the drawer next to mine, in order that I might redistribute some of my wealth and gain more ready access. This, however, is out of the question due to the pressing need for the knick-knacks, bric-a-brac and scented paraphernalia that are in the adjacent drawer, and must remain close at hand in case of a design-emergency.
So I decided I would clean my drawer. One thing that I found, in tackling this chore, is that I really don’t need everything in my drawer.
I didn’t free-up much space when I threw out the three school-photos of children I don’t recognize. Likewise, removing the half-package of petrified Twizzlers did little to satisfy my warehousing crunch—but little by little, I was able to gain space.
What’s this? It looks like a tool (or medical device) - don’t know. Out!
Annoying cat toy - I remember hiding this! Out!
A seed catalog from 1991. Out!
Wow! Two brand new anniversary cards still in the cellophane packaging. This may explain the one-drawer system… I’d better hang onto these.
I slipped one shoestring and a broken television remote in with some of her things. This is bound to be found out, sooner of later, and will bring a lecture regarding my “knuckle-dragging-man-habits”.
Anyway, I’ve got some room in my drawer now. I’m thinking about leasing the extra space to one of my teenage sons. He’s in a pinch for space too, and refuses to clean his drawer – or anything else for that matter.
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