Now, throw in the regular Hash Breaks and rampant lesbianism and you've got yourself one sweet gig!
I returned to my classroom at three. I told the little monsters to straighten up the tables and chairs and sit down. The robotic one stated: "C. are sick." I turn around and look out into the hall and there she is, my favorite student, lying on a mat, twisted, having kicked away the blanket.
She was sleeping through the three o'clock racket or pretending to. I couldn't figure out why my Taiwanese teachers hadn't taken her to sleep down in the office. There's a lot about them I had a hard time figuring out. For instance, why they called some of the boys gay. Now, I could get why they called little boys gay. It's because they're pushing thirty, not married, not making bank, and not out of their parents' house. That part's crystal clear to me. No, what I find beguiling is the boys they selected to call gay. They didn't strike me as the gay ones, at all. At least, they're not the ones fellating the toy cucumber and the toy corn-on-the-cob.
And she's there, on the floor, sleeping, and the two Taiwanese teachers are shooting the shit and trading Hello Kitty magnets at the desk. I take my class down to the second floor. We're going to rehearse our speeches for the graduation ceremony. That's this Saturday. Nine in the a.m.. Fuckers.
Well, K2 is busy sitting around on their asses while K3 parades around in little animal costumes. Sickeningly cute. I ought to hate it--and will, when I see it on stage--but the kids light right up. You put a two and half year old into a tiger costume, complete with hood and ears and tail, and he or she is going to be happy.
So that didn't fly. They were all booked.
I took them down to the first floor, we were going to play in the new indoor jungle gym. Two stories. Comes complete with a slide, inflatable furniture and punching bags.
Booked. K3B.
So we all go upstairs. I stop along the way to wash my hands. When I turn around and go to head up the stairs, the little robot girl is running down them, toward me. She is beaming. "C. are poop her pants."
I run up there as fast as I can and there's C.. She's standing in the hall. Tears are streaming down her face. Her cheeks are slick with them. Her nose just keeps running. She looks like hell and she's standing in her own piss. A lot of it. God only knows how long she was standing there.
I get all of the kids back into the room. All but the speed-freak, who's going, "C. poop her pants! Professor poop-a-doop, C. poop her pants. Alley-tokey-blokey-smokey-jokey-rokey-soakey-ba-la-wallaba-lokey-wokey."
And I could've split innocent eardrums if I'd tried just a little harder. I shouted the kid's name. I told him I hated the sound of him running his mouth. That must've come as quite a shock to him, because he rarely does anything else.
"Okey-dokey," he says.
"C. are poop her pants," the small wonder says again.
"We're not going to talk about it," I snapped.
And then I had to go find the two Taiwanese teachers. It took me about five minutes. The short one was washing out plastic cups, and the taller one was standing right up on her back, reaching around titside and feeling her up, beneath her teddy bear apron.
I hated breaking that up with the news that one of them was about to be cleaning up piss.
In point of fact, I don't mind cleaning up piss. Gimme disinfectant and paper towel and I'm your Johnny on the spot. But it's illegal for me to help children change clothes. Sure, you can get away with buttoning a dress, or tying a shoe, or straightening a shirt, and I'll even comb hair. . . but I must submit to the law when it comes to peeling off urine-soaked stirrup pants.
When I got back upstairs, one of the kids asked me what we were then to do. I'm just standing there, in front of the class. I haven't got a fucking clue until the opening bassline to "We Are Family" kicks in, next door, in K1A. E. and I immediately dive in right at "We" and the rest of the class follows along at "I."
So we all get up and go into K1A and practice the stupid ass song we're all expected to sing. Jay Morrison and I teach them how to lip-sync the verses. The short Taiwanese teacher has C. bare-assed, out in the hall. The short one is telling her no one is mad. Telling her that it couldn't have been helped.
And then, they're done. And we've still got half an hour to kill. So I go back down to the neon-colored play structure and tell P. to take his nursery upstairs. Which he obliged, by the inexplicable grace of God.
And I spent the rest of the day hunkered down on my hands and knees. Occasionally bucking a kick off my back, sometimes carrying two of them up the little stairs to the second floor and then to the slide. I tried going down it a few times and found that the best way was to lay on my back and go head first. The the second twist gives you a lot of speed, but the friction increases almost immediately afterwards. I would out of steam three feet from the mouth of the bottom. This resulted in two or three four-kid pileups.
And they were all squealing.
I bitch about my job a lot. But for about three hours a day, I am surrounded by little people struggling to express themselves verbally, to me. And sometimes all they can say is "I love you." And sometimes, they try to give you a hug as you're ascending the stairway with a hot cup of coffee and a stack of books.
And it's not such a bad job.
She was sleeping through the three o'clock racket or pretending to. I couldn't figure out why my Taiwanese teachers hadn't taken her to sleep down in the office. There's a lot about them I had a hard time figuring out. For instance, why they called some of the boys gay. Now, I could get why they called little boys gay. It's because they're pushing thirty, not married, not making bank, and not out of their parents' house. That part's crystal clear to me. No, what I find beguiling is the boys they selected to call gay. They didn't strike me as the gay ones, at all. At least, they're not the ones fellating the toy cucumber and the toy corn-on-the-cob.
And she's there, on the floor, sleeping, and the two Taiwanese teachers are shooting the shit and trading Hello Kitty magnets at the desk. I take my class down to the second floor. We're going to rehearse our speeches for the graduation ceremony. That's this Saturday. Nine in the a.m.. Fuckers.
Well, K2 is busy sitting around on their asses while K3 parades around in little animal costumes. Sickeningly cute. I ought to hate it--and will, when I see it on stage--but the kids light right up. You put a two and half year old into a tiger costume, complete with hood and ears and tail, and he or she is going to be happy.
So that didn't fly. They were all booked.
I took them down to the first floor, we were going to play in the new indoor jungle gym. Two stories. Comes complete with a slide, inflatable furniture and punching bags.
Booked. K3B.
So we all go upstairs. I stop along the way to wash my hands. When I turn around and go to head up the stairs, the little robot girl is running down them, toward me. She is beaming. "C. are poop her pants."
I run up there as fast as I can and there's C.. She's standing in the hall. Tears are streaming down her face. Her cheeks are slick with them. Her nose just keeps running. She looks like hell and she's standing in her own piss. A lot of it. God only knows how long she was standing there.
I get all of the kids back into the room. All but the speed-freak, who's going, "C. poop her pants! Professor poop-a-doop, C. poop her pants. Alley-tokey-blokey-smokey-jokey-rokey-soakey-ba-la-wallaba-lokey-wokey."
And I could've split innocent eardrums if I'd tried just a little harder. I shouted the kid's name. I told him I hated the sound of him running his mouth. That must've come as quite a shock to him, because he rarely does anything else.
"Okey-dokey," he says.
"C. are poop her pants," the small wonder says again.
"We're not going to talk about it," I snapped.
And then I had to go find the two Taiwanese teachers. It took me about five minutes. The short one was washing out plastic cups, and the taller one was standing right up on her back, reaching around titside and feeling her up, beneath her teddy bear apron.
I hated breaking that up with the news that one of them was about to be cleaning up piss.
In point of fact, I don't mind cleaning up piss. Gimme disinfectant and paper towel and I'm your Johnny on the spot. But it's illegal for me to help children change clothes. Sure, you can get away with buttoning a dress, or tying a shoe, or straightening a shirt, and I'll even comb hair. . . but I must submit to the law when it comes to peeling off urine-soaked stirrup pants.
When I got back upstairs, one of the kids asked me what we were then to do. I'm just standing there, in front of the class. I haven't got a fucking clue until the opening bassline to "We Are Family" kicks in, next door, in K1A. E. and I immediately dive in right at "We" and the rest of the class follows along at "I."
So we all get up and go into K1A and practice the stupid ass song we're all expected to sing. Jay Morrison and I teach them how to lip-sync the verses. The short Taiwanese teacher has C. bare-assed, out in the hall. The short one is telling her no one is mad. Telling her that it couldn't have been helped.
And then, they're done. And we've still got half an hour to kill. So I go back down to the neon-colored play structure and tell P. to take his nursery upstairs. Which he obliged, by the inexplicable grace of God.
And I spent the rest of the day hunkered down on my hands and knees. Occasionally bucking a kick off my back, sometimes carrying two of them up the little stairs to the second floor and then to the slide. I tried going down it a few times and found that the best way was to lay on my back and go head first. The the second twist gives you a lot of speed, but the friction increases almost immediately afterwards. I would out of steam three feet from the mouth of the bottom. This resulted in two or three four-kid pileups.
And they were all squealing.
I bitch about my job a lot. But for about three hours a day, I am surrounded by little people struggling to express themselves verbally, to me. And sometimes all they can say is "I love you." And sometimes, they try to give you a hug as you're ascending the stairway with a hot cup of coffee and a stack of books.
And it's not such a bad job.