Thursday, April 19, 2018
Wednesday, April 04, 2018
More proof at my bad blog - Dogtown 12901 - about the cleanliness of downtown Plattsburgh City. WARNING: Includes image not safe for work or mealtime.
Sunday, April 01, 2018
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Article © 2018 Luke T. Bush
The situation has really changed since I attended high school. Back then relations between students and teachers were – well, let’s say more liberal in certain cases.
One day during my junior year I was in study hall, bored. To cram as many students into the room the desks were lined up in rows, each desk abutting the one next to it. These were the blonde wooden desks with rectangular tops, some adorned with messages. The tools: a Bic pen with blue ink or a jackknife for a permanent etching. (Shop Class taught many a neophyte carver the required technique.)
I happened to be sitting in the front row, near the teacher assigned to babysitting duty. He looked like a recent college graduate who was “lucky” to land a teaching job in the hinterlands.
I noticed a sheet on his desk, a list of absentee students. I reached over, my arm barely crossing one corner of the desk to my right where an attractive blonde in the senior class sat. I checked the list and put it back.
The teacher noted my actions. He said to me: “Luke, you know it’s impolite to cross in front of someone without excusing yourself.”
I glanced over at the girl next to me. “Sorry,” I replied, “she blends so well into the woodwork that I didn’t see her.”
Suddenly the teacher glared at me. The angry countenance of the lava god. He struggled to control himself: his muscles tense from resisting violence, his throat imprisoning strong words.
I told a friend later about the incident, wondering why the teacher was really upset.
My friend explained: “You insulted his girlfriend.”
|An archetypal historical scene similar to what I experienced.|
Article © 2018 Luke T. Bush
During my teen years I attended a centralized school in the hinterlands known for priding itself on offering courses that profoundly developed one’s intellect.
For example: Shop Class. This was during the Dark Ages of education. While all the girls took Home Economics, learning how to sew and bake for their future careers in housewifery, the guys had to learn manly things like how to saw wood and bend metal to make pointless crap.
Call him Mr. Ruffwood. I don’t remember the real name of my eighth grade shop teacher but Ruffwood is an appropriate moniker for someone with his demeanor.
One day in Shop Class Mr. Ruffwood warned us to watch out for a large vise attached to one table. This vise was situated at a certain height from the floor.
“Make sure you don’t walk into it.” He growled like a bear suffering from a chronic anal itch. “If you’re not careful you’ll injure your testicles. If you don’t know what that means they’re your testis. And if you don’t know what that means it’s your nuts.”
It was easy to avoid the vise because it was painted bright yellow. Even the inbred hayseeds could grok the visual alert.
One day we wrapped up early, put all the tools away, cleaned up the work area. Then we stood out in the hallway, holding our books, waiting for the bell to tell us to move along to the next class.
Mr. Ruffwood was upset that we ended five minutes early. “Look at you, standing around like a bunch of prostitutes.”
So while our testicles were never physically harmed Mr. Ruffwood busted our nuts verbally.