http://gizmodo.com/5034291/goateesaver-ensures-your-goatee-looks-as-good-as-a-goatee-is-ever-going-to-look-which-is-to-say-not-that-good

Strung on pretension they fall for you at first sight

You know their business – you think it’s a bore

They make you restless – It’s nothin you ain’t seen before

Get around town, spend your time on the run

You never let down, say you do it for fun

Never miss a play, though you make quite a few

You give it all away when everybody wants you.

- Billy Squire

I love fruit.  Bananas.  Apples.  Mangos.  You name it.  I used to not like tomatoes, but now I like them.  I think I pretty much like every fruit there is; I even like that gigantic Asian fruit – durian – that smells like a fart.  Really, it smells like a fart.  And I like it. 

And so this morning I went fruit shopping.  Naturally, this journey – like every other experience involving society – was captained by the female ass.  I ended up in the biography section of a small independent bookstore. 

“Oh, Churchill, that’s a good one.”

She nods and walks away.  She must have been playing it cool.  Whatever.  Her eyebrows were too far away from each other anyways.  And besides, the clerk in the corner has been ogling the crap out of me.

I ogle the crap right back out of her and she quickly averts her attention back to work.  Jesus, she might even fuck me in the closet. 

I walk over.  Music section.  I pick up some old, crusty book of tablature.  Rachmaninoff.  I peruse.

“Do you need help with anything?” she asks. 

She’s decent looking.  I don’t really like the shape of her hairline, but whatever, I’ll make her fall in love with me.

“Oh, no thanks.  Just taking a look.”  I clear my throat, wink at her, and whisper, “I have a photographic memory.”  And then I return to the studying of the Prelude in C-Sharp minor.  Maybe I’ll play it tonight for my dinner guests?

She giggles, and skedaddles over to the front counter. 

Jesus, she’s probably going to ask for my phone number when I walk out.  Yeah, I’ll give it to her, why not?  But ugh, I really wish she wouldn’t.  I’m not really looking for one of those aggressive, social butterfly type of girls.  I want a loser.  Someone that gets nervous and awkward.  Someone that stays in on a Saturday night.  Someone that wouldn’t have the guts to ask a guy for their phone number.  A hopeless romantic would do. 

Second thought, she kind of looks like a loser.  She’s probably not going to ask for my phone number.  She’s probably going to trace my credit card and find out my information and sit by the phone tonight pacing back and forth trying to muster the courage to make the call.  That’s a little creepy.  But I mean, it’s kind of romantic, too.  Sort of.  If you’re ugly it’s creepy; if you’re hot it’s romantic.  She’s pretty decent; I guess it’s not that creepy. 

But what if I pay with cash?

…Guess I’ll just have to use my credit card.  I don’t really want anything – can’t even really afford it – but I guess you got to do what you got to do.  It would tear her apart if I left without any way for her to contact me. 

I don’t play piano.  I buy a bookmark.  With my credit card. 

She gives me a funny look – obviously nervous – and then rings me up. 

I depart.  She probably sighed, and called me dreamy. 

Who could blame her?  I’m wearing my favorite shirt.  It fits me perfect – not too wide, not too skinny.  My pectoral muscles look friggin huge in it.  The back doesn’t flap around like a cape, and the sleeves aren’t too long or baggy.  They’re not too tight either, minimizing pit stains.  It’s not too long, getting in the way of my pockets; and not too short, exposing belly when I reach for the Crystal Light on the top aisles of the supermarket.  I don’t even need to look in the mirror after putting it on.  It’s my favorite shirt and it fits me perfect.  Did I mention its aqua hue brings out my eyes? 

I look good back on course for the fruit market.  But I’ve lost valuable time.  I need to play catch up if I’m going to have time to shower before this big date.  I increase my pace three notches – that is to say about 1.5 mph’s.  Ughh.  But there’s a Swingy Arm in front of me.  You know, those people that walk with their arms swinging to confounding extremes culminating in obtuse angles of their bodies.  You’d think this would increase their momentum, make them go a little faster  …NOT the case.  This man with stone washed nut huggers and a faux-hawk defied physics. 

I juke to the right and see an opening.  Swingy Arms is about a foot in front of me displaced a little to my left.  An incoming hot dog cart is about three feet in front of me displaced a little to my right.  It’s narrow, but I’m quick; I think I can make it.  I up the speed and go for the pass.  …Slow motion now:  I twist to my left (making myself more aerodynamic).  The sidewalk, out of nowhere, decides to grow a bump.  My foot hits it.  I trip.  Barreling forward, Swingy Arms’ arm swings back and gently pats my penis on the fly.    

Gross.  Me.  Out.

I regain my footing and dart ahead.  At safe distance, I turn around and glare scorn at this man of pathetic gait, this man whose swinging arm swung into my cock as I tried to pass him.  He meets my contact of the eye, and blows me a kiss.     

http://gizmodo.com/5036263/every-nes-game-now-up-for-grabs-on-ebay

Genius.

So, the faculty has a few weeks of professional development and then the first day of school is September 2.  In the time being, I’ll try and post some random crap, so keep checking up.  You certainly wouldn’t want to be ill informed …Here in the downtown area, restaurant and bar owners are concerned primarily with the rise in violent crime …

“Ohh, man, look at that!”  I point to the window with frenetic enthusiasm.  And then quickly – and with utmost stealth – I swipe to pick the goober in one fluid grab.

Failure.

“I think it’s a falcon!”  I try again, this time adding an inconspicuous gust of breath. 

Failure.

My concern for Shekia quickly turns to concern for myself.  God has pushed me through the turnstiles.  I have been given a get out of jail free card and a ride to the Reading; I would be stupid not to take it.  Most imminently, she will discover that there is a moist strand of mysteriousity accessorizing the back of her noggin, and I do not want to be anywhere near her when she does. 

Anxiously, I return to the front of the classroom.  “Ok, ok, back to business now.  It’s just a falcon.”  I clear my throat, scratch my balls, and then slap my wooden pointer stick thing at the food web diagram I three minutes ago so beautifully created on the whiteboard. 

The lesson continues.  The seconds tick on.  The suspense is unbearable. 

With about six minutes left in the period, Ronnie flatulates …evidently.  It seems his peers do not care to breathe within his proximity.  They evacuate to the furthest depths of the room, where Gregory then makes a most astute observation:

“Shekia, you got fucking mucous on your head!”

There are few moments in one’s life more terrifying than when you go to scratch a pesky itch and it turns out that there is a gigantic insect on your body.  One of those moments might be when you’re told you have fucking mucous on your head, and then when you feel the back of your head, there is fucking mucous on it.  I can’t quite recall the fit verbatim, but some key phrases were:

“Ohh, hell no!”, “Fucking mucous in my hair!”, “Get this shit the fuck out!”

It seems Shekia’s attitude towards mucous hats is not one of enthusiasm.  Furiously, she attempts to rid her hair of slime.  Swatting.  Slapping.  Screaming.  Swearing.  From the sidelines, I try to quell the situation:

“Shekia, I don’t think that’s mucous.”

“Then what the fuck is it!”

I’m stumped.

When someone has a seizure, you’re supposed to just clear the area and let em rip.  This was kind of like a seizure, so I followed similar protocol.  After about thirty seconds of violent convulsions, Shekia lets out one final roar and storms out of the classroom in a huff.  My students all look to me, wondering what’s next.  Am I going to leave the ball of black, synthetic hair on the floor like that?  Or will I pick it up and put it aside?  You can actually see the real hair braided into it.  I’ve always wondered how that worked.   

This kid controls his body.

It’s hard to be intimidating when you’re white.  There just ain’t nothing scary about it.  I mean, if you’re a black guy on a job interview, well sure, it’s got to be terrifying.  But I’m talking physically here.  Some guys pull it off, no doubt, but they tend to have bald heads and tattoos of swastikas on their faces.  I’ve always been quite the wuss when it comes to needles. 

So I guess I’m not the authoritative type.  I try, sometimes – “NOOOOWWWW!!!” – but it just ain’t me.  I guess I’m just too nice …awwww. 

I approach classroom management like I approach ugly women – looking for the back door.  You don’t need to be intimidating to control a classroom.  You just need to gain respect.  Now, don’t get me wrong, this is a battle in itself, but if you’re going to run a successful classroom, it’s a battle that must be won.  Most certainly, it helps if your students feel they can relate to you.  I make this part as easy for them as possible …

I showed up a little late today, hung-over. 

“Oooohhh, I’m so full!”

“Huh?”

“I ate so much fried chicken last night I’m about to explode!”  I throw my briefcase on my desk, lick my finger, and wipe a scuff out my Urr Force Ones.  “Man, I’m thursty, who’s got some Kool-Aid up in this mofo?” 

My students are always a bit confused in the mornings.  “Kool-Aid?”

“Kool-Aid, fruit punch, I don’t care.”

… “How bout some water.”

“Ughh, fine.”  …Sip.  “Yo, Jose, come over here and crack my back.  Crammed like a fuckin sardine in that car.”

“Mr. Kimble?”

“Yes, Rwana?”

“Are you wearing a doo rag?”