Mr.Browzen's Family Tree
The only thing math is good for is a cure for insomnia. Late at night, when the curtains are drawn and the heartbeat of the clock is magnified (blame the theory of relativity), I love math. I love it like a mathematician, I love it like Einstein, I love it like Mr.Browzen. Because it works so nicely towards incuring slumber. Count sheep. Solve quadratic equations. Fall asleep.
Earlier today, he handed back the math quiz we took on monday. It was marred by so much red ink, it looked like it had a weathered a few nights on a battlefield. Mr.Browzen glared at me over the rim of his glasses. "Why did this happen?" He barked in a patently Brownzen-ish way.
I looked up calmly. It had meant to be a defiant look, but it fell short. And I meant to tell him it was because he was, frankly, inadequate as a teacher, a human being,an eggplant, and a conversation piece. Instead, I said:"Why aren't your walls brown?"
He blinked. "What?" He snapped.
Wavering now under his notorious gaze, I repeated:"Wh-why are...aren't your walls....brown....?"
His ruddy face showed no signs of comprehension, so naturally, I had to help the poor old chap out by saying:"Your name's Browzen. Shouldn't the walls in here be brown?"
He proceeded to tell me all about how his name wasn't Brown, it was Browzen. In fact, I now know an unfortunate amount about what unsuspecting people and addled genes eventually produced a man named Mr.Edward Browzen. So if you ever want to know about his family tree, the names of his second cousins, or the tragic story of his grandfather, I can tell you.
That man is so long winded, he must be a great endurance athlete, or at least a tuba player. Though I must admit, I did encourage it. I am now Mr.Browzen's period seven Pre-Calc class's hero. I waylaid an undoubtedly regretable lesson for over fifteen minutes. Kudos and candies for me, please.
Earlier today, he handed back the math quiz we took on monday. It was marred by so much red ink, it looked like it had a weathered a few nights on a battlefield. Mr.Browzen glared at me over the rim of his glasses. "Why did this happen?" He barked in a patently Brownzen-ish way.
I looked up calmly. It had meant to be a defiant look, but it fell short. And I meant to tell him it was because he was, frankly, inadequate as a teacher, a human being,an eggplant, and a conversation piece. Instead, I said:"Why aren't your walls brown?"
He blinked. "What?" He snapped.
Wavering now under his notorious gaze, I repeated:"Wh-why are...aren't your walls....brown....?"
His ruddy face showed no signs of comprehension, so naturally, I had to help the poor old chap out by saying:"Your name's Browzen. Shouldn't the walls in here be brown?"
He proceeded to tell me all about how his name wasn't Brown, it was Browzen. In fact, I now know an unfortunate amount about what unsuspecting people and addled genes eventually produced a man named Mr.Edward Browzen. So if you ever want to know about his family tree, the names of his second cousins, or the tragic story of his grandfather, I can tell you.
That man is so long winded, he must be a great endurance athlete, or at least a tuba player. Though I must admit, I did encourage it. I am now Mr.Browzen's period seven Pre-Calc class's hero. I waylaid an undoubtedly regretable lesson for over fifteen minutes. Kudos and candies for me, please.