Alrighty, first of all, remember to go vote for my amazingness if you haven’t already:
Best Humor Blog
Second, try not to let yourself enjoy the schadenfreude of these next stories get to be too much. I wouldn’t want anyone going into this bleak, economic-downfall of a holiday season in a good mood or anything.
I was trying to impart the solitary astonishingnessof Virginia Woolf’s prose to a small group of extremely uninterested young males this afternoon, when I realized something rather bizarre: They were all staringintently at their balls. Or, well, where I imagine their balls would be. I’m not THAT kind of instructor, thanks. Now, I know 19-year-old boys are pretty hung up on how hung they are, but Jesus. If lecturing on Woolf is enough to send them into a nut-sniffingcoma, I seriously need to find another line of work. Then I realize, Oh No. They’re not gazing at their manginas, they’re all text-messaging, probably to each other… things like, “this iz so gay wanna shower together later?”
“You gimme that phone,” I bark at the nearest perp. He gazes up at me with that dead-behind-the-eyes expression I associate with Alzheimer’s and persons just caught mid-junk-shot with a Playboy in hand. While the prey is thus stunned, I handily snatch his snazzy little phone away. The text messaging screen is still up and reads: HI BABY ARE U BEIN GOOD 
Because I am feeling particularly vindictive, I chortle this line aloud in front of his friends so they can laugh at him, too. He looks confused, then cross, then tries to speak, but I cut him off. “You can bury your ADD little skull into To The Lighthouse, mister. And you two, pass me yours, too.” I glare teacherishly around the room as two reluctant phones come skittering across the table. “Don’t worry — I’ll answer her back for you.” I cackle fiendishly, hurling his unopened copy of Woolf at his now-empty lap.
IM A BAD BAD BAD BOY SO BAD I AM FAILING ENGERLISH AND I DONT EVEN LIKE YOU
Hey, I wasn’t TRYING to be poetic, and I have a hard time finding the letters on those little keys. I did misspell English on purpose, though. A few minutes later, as I circle the room to make sure they’re not actually reading comic books behind their books, that phone goes off with a vibration strong enough to get off even Lindsay Lohan’s worn-down stub of a love button.
UR FAILING ENGLISH?! CALL HOME NOW!!!!
Oh dear. “Um, I think this is for you.” I mumble sheepishly, handing him his phone.
“I was trying to tell you! That was my MOM!” He bellows. Meanwhile, I’m thinking: What the nuts. Even this guy’s MOM can text better than I can.
Minutes later, in tryingto ignore the angry glares I’m now getting from one student, I idly pick up another phone at random and check out the games apps. Ooooh! Tetris! I’m all the way to level 4 when there is a knock on the door. I wave one of the boys to get it since I don’t want to lose my concentration.
“What are you doing?” Asks the counseling director, genuinely puzzled.
“I took their phones away.”
“Well, that’s good. But why is YOUR phone still out?”
“Oh, it’s not. This is one of their phones.”
“What are you doing with it?!”
“I’m playing Tetris.”
In addition to getting a firm memo stating the athletic department’s zero-tolerance policy on Tetris, I’m also still in trouble with my husband. This happens more frequently than you’d imagine, probably due to the fact that when I have a few drinks, I like the break things. Some folks get stabby, I get breaky. Oh, who am I kidding? I break things CONSTANTLY, dead sober, and usually while paying attention. It’s fucking awful. I have broken almost every one of our major appliances, the front door, two light fixtures, and now [hangs head in shame] his beloved truck.
I cannot drive. Please ask anyone who knows me or lives within a ten mile radius of me. I mean, I can GET places. I have a pretty good sense of direction, can change a tire, etc. But I am really shitty about paying attention to, say, stop signs, other cars, lights or “Children X-ing!” warnings. I tend to view traffic signs as mere suggestions, and we don’t even have the time for me to go into my speeding addiction.
To make this nightmare complete, the economy has shit a brick and gas has been retarded expensive. To alleviate this, I’ve been driving my husband’s gargantuan truck to work (only two minutes away) while he takes my more eco-friendly (ergo cheaper) Celica to his work (20 minutes away). So now I’m in this huge ass thing with a bumper bigger than Aretha Franklin at a buffet. I’m used to having a tiny car that turns on a dime. A mode of transport that does NOT come complete with mullet and gun rack. You know. A NORMAL FUCKING CAR.
All of this is in an attempt to explain how I backed into a goddamn pole. I was actually WATCHING the pole when it happened. Had my eyes on the prize, at it were. Then there was a bang, a spine rattle, and a dent roughly the size of Miami beach on the bumper. Oh, and my coffee went everywhere. ”For the love of POPSICLES!” I screeched, at the pole, I guess.
Then, because I think that I’m stealthy, I drive to a nearby auto-body shop to try out the lie I will hand my husband that evening: that someone mercilessly crashed into me at school and drove off. The mechanic looks at my eyes closely, checking for signs of drinking, probably. ”Are you serious lady? The dent is actually SHAPED like a pole.” I sigh and drive home to find the hammers.
Turns out, it’s fucking HARD to bang a dent from a chrome bumper. I got down under the chassis, whacked away with all my might… nothing. I even tried kicking it from the underside. FUCK. I was gonna have to tell the truth. Man, sometimes I hate the truth as much as a Republican under oath. I crawl out from under the car, defeated, and start to drive home. On the way out of the lot, one of my students stops me with a friendly wave. I roll down the windows and chat for a second. Then I notice his look of alarm. “Um, why do you have two rusty hammers in the front seat?” He asks, cautiously, like you’d speak to a serial killer that likes fava beans and a nice chianti.
“Oh, well, you never know when something will need hammering.” I say lamely. He stares at me. I stare back. “Don’t be late tomorrow!” I bellow then, pealing away with a roar in my man-mobile. In the rearview, I see him sprinting for safety.
At least now I know what to get my husband for Christmas.
