School’s in session and the Gusman is NOT hot for teacher. There’s a nice blonde teaching one classroom over, but I got stuck with not one but TWO teachers who got serious beat-downs by the ugly stick. These are not teachers I will bring shiny red apples to. Instead, think of the queen who turns herself into an old hag to deliver the poisonous apple to Snow White. Now, add 100 pounds. Now, add a mole chock-full of hair to the chin. That’s one teacher. Now, pretend that teacher gave birth to a daughter who is her spitting image. That’s my other teacher. So that’s my Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Me and two not-hot chicks, a bunch of kids who speak more than one language, and more arts and craft projects than a Christmastime bazaar. If I have to glue colored strips of tissue paper to one more thing, I’m going to glue my eyelids shut and poop on the big circular letter rug they make us sit on to sing our ABCs. Do you know what a fucking pain in the ass it is to get glue on your fingers and then have to pick up and take off these retarded little squares of tissue paper? They’re the size of Dentyne Ice gum. It’s ridiculous. Tissue paper art projects make as much sense to me as my teachers in a bikini contest. The only cool part is pulling off the tissue from other kid’s projects after they’ve worked so hard to get all those fucking squares glued on. The chicks especially. They hate me.
I also was not aware that Ugly-Dee and Ugly-Dum would be such tremendous tattle tales. After the first day, I was denied my baba after mommy learned from the elder teacher that I was spitting at other kids all day. Now she asks the teachers every time she picks me up if I was well-behaved, and if one molecule of my saliva has landed on a fellow classmate, no baba. So I have to be careful to do it when they’re not looking. Which is easy. Two of them, twenty of us…you do the math. By the end of three hours, I am itching to get the fuck out of there, so I become the most antagonistic child in the class. I steal art projects from kids after they are handed back to them. If we are playing on the floor, I wheelbarrow roll over whoever’s limbs get in my way. I poke. I prod. And every so often, I will catch a glimpse of mommy dearest in the hallway watching through a double-paned glass window that you can’t scream or issue time-outs through. And I throw her a winning smile and proceed to tackle the small Indian girl sitting next to me on the floor. Moments like these are sweet. I can see the swell of anger building in mommy’s face out of the corner of my eye, and so I wave and smile at her again, making sure all the other parents in the hall know that I belong to her–and I chuck a crayon at the window she is watching from. Then another one. Then one of my teacher’s takes me by the arm and sits me in my chair. I look over my shoulder. Yup. Mommy is still watching. And she is pissed. And it is awesome.
I do have a crush. Her name is Emma Marie. The Beast of Blabber who is the younger teacher ratted me out and told mommy that me and Emma held hands all day today. The Gusman finally gets a little action and I get zero days to enjoy it, meaning, it was twenty fucking questions the whole ride home:
Mommy: Is she pretty?
Me: She is beautiful. This question need not be spoken ever again. Like the Gusman wastes his time on trolls.
Mommy: Is she taller or shorter than you?
Me: I’m taller. Dumbest. Question. Ever.
Mommy: Why do you like her?
Me: I don’t know, because her mommy stays sober on the weeknights and doesn’t lock her in her room for twenty-minute increments. She is really funny.
Mommy: What makes her funny?
Me: I don’t know. She says funny words.
Mommy: So you guys laugh a lot?
Me: Yeah. A logical yet brilliant assumption.
Then she told me she wanted to meet her the next time I go to school, and I’m thinking I would rather crawl into a hole and die than let my pajama-donning, make-up free, booze-breathy, snot-nosed baby-carrying, puff pastry-faced mother meet my new, hot piece of ass. It’s bad enough I’m the only cracker in the class–I would at least like to avoid the white trash label until me and Emma have made it official. I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get out of this one. I’ll keep you posted.
I know I’ve been slacking on the blog, but school takes it out of me, man. I come home and all mommy wants to do is ask me shit about letters and numbers and art projects, and all I want to do is suck on a sippee of milk and veg in front of Dora. I promise to try not to slack so much. In other household news, Leona has set a new ten-step record. Mommy says she will be chasing me through the house very soon, but I think that’s an extreme exaggeration. She can take ten steps, but her toes are pointed outwards when she does it, and it’s more like a shuffle. Her knees don’t really bend enough to lift up her feet. As a result, she sort of walks like a 107-year old ballerina stuck in first position. And she concentrates really hard. So, like a 107-year old ballerina who has to poop. While it is unlikely that she will be chasing me any time soon, it is likely that mommy will have a Ten-Step Party for her. Any reason to put a keg on the patio. (Oh, I know. The “ten step” irony is like a piece of Gramma’s apple pie.)
I must run. Gramma Mic flies in tonight and I can’t wait to ask her to sleep with me in my urine-y bed. We are going to have so much fun playing cars and chase and puzzles. And we’ll eat popcorn together and watch movies. And I will be such a good boy because when that bitch leaves, she’s taking me with her. You better believe it. And Emma Marie is going in my suitcase.
Shot out to Lucien Walker, my BIG little cousin who is one today. Thanks for sharing your green alligator cake with me on Easter Sunday. It was awesome turning the bath tub water green with you, Leona, and Sienna. But seriously, dude, lay off the pork rinds. Any more junk in your trunk and we will have to hitch up a trailer.