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When I was in grade twelve, I was in an integrated class called World Issues. In theory, this was a social studies class dealing with current events. The students included everyone from the with Down's Syndrome students to the accelerated learning students. It was an utter trainwreck.
I only had one friend throughout high school. Her name was Donna, and we were pretty much inseparable. It was a rather unhealthy relationship, as she was borderline psychotic, and I acted as her bodyguard. My job was to keep the creeps from molesting her, and there were creeps aplenty in this class.
John (who was the first person to ever hit on me, but that's another story) frequently used World Issues as a venue to sniff glue. And he sat in the second row from the front. Tammy sat in front of me and would gossip about the skanky goings-on at her house. Her mother was always getting drunk and taking on several guys at a time. Neville could fart the first two bars of Yankee Doodle. It was uncanny.
The teacher, Mrs. Norrad, was one of the dumbest women I've ever met. She had a shock of white-blonde hair similar to that of Don King, and had no control over her students whatsoever.
Aside from the frequent belching competitions, the pastime of choice was launching missiles. These were made of various things. Masticated paper towel or toilet paper was a favourite, and huge pulpy gobs of paper were stuck to walls and ceilings everywhere. Once, one even got Mrs. Norrad, and the only thing she did was say, "Now boys, if you don't behave yourselves, I'll have to send you to the office."
But she never did.
They also liked to make banana bombs. To make a good banana bomb, you must take an already ripe banana and leave it in your desk for a few days. When it was black all over and good and juicy inside, you'd carefully roll it between your hands until it was pure liquid on the inside. And then you'd whip it across the room full force.
One day, apparently after a Ninja movie, the shop boys brought in a wack of crude throwing stars they'd made in their metals class. As soon as I saw one, I grabbed Donna and hit the floor, hiding under our desks. Soon there were stars sticking out of the doors, intercom system, and ceiling. I don't know how no one got maimed.
And still Mrs. Norrad did nothing.
We were given homework assignments. Each week, we had to write a précis of three newspaper articles. It could be on anything. After a week or two of this, I got sick of the assignment and turned it into a creative writing exercise. I made up my own stories. At first, I was pretty conservative with them, and wrote about completely believable topics. But after a while, I realized my true calling was to write articles for The Weekly World News.
One day, Mrs. Norrad asked to see me after class. I'd written three articles:
1. A computer virus had been discovered and quickly dispatched.
2. A scientist had been trampled to death by rampaging penguins at an Antarctic research station.
3. Fifteen missionaries had been trampled to death by drunk, rampaging elephants in Kenya.
Even though Mrs. Norrad had never given out punishment for anything, I was sweating bullets. I'd been caught out!
But what article should she ask me about but the computer virus? "That virus, is it gone now?"
"Oh yes," I said. "You don't have to worry about it. They got it all."
"Oh good," she said.
I tested my luck later on in the term. We were doing a unit on the military, and I suggested that I could bring in a copy of Iron Eagle II. And so we got to watch a shittastic Hollywood movie for educational purposes.
But I think my favourite memory from the class was when Mrs. Norrad decided it was time we all learned how to use the library. Although I'd been using libraries since I was a toddler, apparently there were a few people in our class who'd made it through twelve (or more) years of school without ever using one.
So there I am, sitting at a table, reading a book and minding my own business when I hear raucous laughter. Curious, I look up. A cluster of shop boys and skanky girls is gathered around the microfiche reader. Every now and then, they whisper, and then laugh again.
Microfiche readers really aren't very funny, and I couldn't imagine what film they were looking at that would be so entertaining, so I kept watching.
Every now and then, one of their party would break off, leave the library, and return. Then they'd all gaze intently at the microfiche reader before cackling again.
I finally figured it out. They were using it as a microscope to look at pubic hair.
You know, I'm almost tempted to go to one of my high school reunions, now. I'm curious to see if any of them survived adolescence.
I only had one friend throughout high school. Her name was Donna, and we were pretty much inseparable. It was a rather unhealthy relationship, as she was borderline psychotic, and I acted as her bodyguard. My job was to keep the creeps from molesting her, and there were creeps aplenty in this class.
John (who was the first person to ever hit on me, but that's another story) frequently used World Issues as a venue to sniff glue. And he sat in the second row from the front. Tammy sat in front of me and would gossip about the skanky goings-on at her house. Her mother was always getting drunk and taking on several guys at a time. Neville could fart the first two bars of Yankee Doodle. It was uncanny.
The teacher, Mrs. Norrad, was one of the dumbest women I've ever met. She had a shock of white-blonde hair similar to that of Don King, and had no control over her students whatsoever.
Aside from the frequent belching competitions, the pastime of choice was launching missiles. These were made of various things. Masticated paper towel or toilet paper was a favourite, and huge pulpy gobs of paper were stuck to walls and ceilings everywhere. Once, one even got Mrs. Norrad, and the only thing she did was say, "Now boys, if you don't behave yourselves, I'll have to send you to the office."
But she never did.
They also liked to make banana bombs. To make a good banana bomb, you must take an already ripe banana and leave it in your desk for a few days. When it was black all over and good and juicy inside, you'd carefully roll it between your hands until it was pure liquid on the inside. And then you'd whip it across the room full force.
One day, apparently after a Ninja movie, the shop boys brought in a wack of crude throwing stars they'd made in their metals class. As soon as I saw one, I grabbed Donna and hit the floor, hiding under our desks. Soon there were stars sticking out of the doors, intercom system, and ceiling. I don't know how no one got maimed.
And still Mrs. Norrad did nothing.
We were given homework assignments. Each week, we had to write a précis of three newspaper articles. It could be on anything. After a week or two of this, I got sick of the assignment and turned it into a creative writing exercise. I made up my own stories. At first, I was pretty conservative with them, and wrote about completely believable topics. But after a while, I realized my true calling was to write articles for The Weekly World News.
One day, Mrs. Norrad asked to see me after class. I'd written three articles:
1. A computer virus had been discovered and quickly dispatched.
2. A scientist had been trampled to death by rampaging penguins at an Antarctic research station.
3. Fifteen missionaries had been trampled to death by drunk, rampaging elephants in Kenya.
Even though Mrs. Norrad had never given out punishment for anything, I was sweating bullets. I'd been caught out!
But what article should she ask me about but the computer virus? "That virus, is it gone now?"
"Oh yes," I said. "You don't have to worry about it. They got it all."
"Oh good," she said.
I tested my luck later on in the term. We were doing a unit on the military, and I suggested that I could bring in a copy of Iron Eagle II. And so we got to watch a shittastic Hollywood movie for educational purposes.
But I think my favourite memory from the class was when Mrs. Norrad decided it was time we all learned how to use the library. Although I'd been using libraries since I was a toddler, apparently there were a few people in our class who'd made it through twelve (or more) years of school without ever using one.
So there I am, sitting at a table, reading a book and minding my own business when I hear raucous laughter. Curious, I look up. A cluster of shop boys and skanky girls is gathered around the microfiche reader. Every now and then, they whisper, and then laugh again.
Microfiche readers really aren't very funny, and I couldn't imagine what film they were looking at that would be so entertaining, so I kept watching.
Every now and then, one of their party would break off, leave the library, and return. Then they'd all gaze intently at the microfiche reader before cackling again.
I finally figured it out. They were using it as a microscope to look at pubic hair.
You know, I'm almost tempted to go to one of my high school reunions, now. I'm curious to see if any of them survived adolescence.
