Driving to Mass today, Mary had time to unpack some of her stories from her visit with her juniors to Houston, to demonstrate some Waldorf educational methods to schools in the Houston area, part of their social service component. One of the students has grandparents in The Woodlands nearby, who offered to fix up a luncheon for all eight of the students and the two teachers. Nate said it would be pigs-in-a-blanket, corn pone, and bean salad, and Mary said that would be great, only to realize the next day when the food was delivered that they were at a synagogue school. Eat them all up, now, she ordered, and they scarfed them all down, then trucked the remains of their meal out with them.
So far, she hasn’t been charged with a hate crime.
But you’d think that after she’d called Mira Mincis asking for a good pork chop recipe, she’d have learned her lesson.
Three Man Clit
Probably doesn’t deserve its own post, but it occurred to me today that Aidan, 14, is just the age I was when my friends and I used to play 3-Man Clit. You could play with more people (in which case it was 4- or 5-Man, or whatever), but three were the minimum. The idea was that one person would say clit under his breath in a classroom, then each of the others would have to do so, too, audibly louder. So it would begin sotto voce and sometimes (depending on the cadre and the teacher) end in stentorian bellowing of the word, “clit.” The first person to back down was a wuss. It amused me then, and it amuses me now to think of it, because I am a moron.
In my day, we would all get together and set a time about half way through class….when the time came, all of us would pick up out text book and slam it on the table at the same time…..my physics teacher would nearly jump out of his shoes….
He was the typical absent minded scientist….among other things we would do is shake his hand on the way out the door and say “fuck you very much Mr. Brooks…..”
You’re both a couple of punks.
In my day we used to have trouble coordinating the big book drop. I can’t remember if we ever got it right.
I don’t want to say where the second part of your anecdote sent me, but let’s just admit I really should weed out a few bookmarks…
Are you saying that we’re a couple of punks individually, cranky? That’s flattering.
I fired my editor recently. Hence the incoherent comments when I’m sober.
The whole thing was supposed to be ironic. I failed miserably. Time to write up the old manifesto and bring on the crazy.
the above sentence was meant for entertainment purposes only and should not be construed as a reflection of my state of mind.
Wait. Are you saying I wasn’t badass?
It’s hard to be badass when you hang around at lunch with other zitpickers quoting Monty Python sketches.
No, I called you a punk and then related how I was one, too. Three four five six.
I’m sure you were very much a badass. The baddest. So bad that regular badasses stood aside when you walked by. And they spoke with reverence about your latest game of “3-man clit.”
And that time you did that thing with the water ballons and shaving cream? Legendary.
My two friends (18 year old guys) came down to visit me from Boise, and they played a similar game, but instead of “clit”, it was “penis”.
They didn’t think I’d play. But I did, and I won. Loudly. :D
Well, yeah. But that’s because I had a lot of gravitas, for a twerp.
Then again, from the other side was my 7th grade algebra teacher (Mr. Soukesian? Sakhasian?) circa Patrick Henry Jr. High, Granda Hills CA 1966-67… a man that looked remarkably like Ed Asner, but all the bulk was solid muscle—no neck, balding head and forearms covered in a remarkable field of black hair.
Any attempt at hooliganism and he would reach into his desk and with remarkable accuracy pelt the offender across the room with a roll of toilet paper bellowing “You, sir, have diarrehea of the mouth! Wipe it!”. He could wander up and down the aisles tossing problems at you and hesitation in answering would bring a short thwap on the head with the grade book he was carrying
and for the most recalcitrant behavior, he kept a shortened baseball bat in his desk… I can recall the stunned look on the offender’s face when he brought that down on the desk between the hands of the student.
He was fair, broked no nonsense, we admired by most of us and was one of the best math teachers I ever had.
And there is no way he could ever be a teacher in today’s public schools.
I suspect the version of this game at my (Catholic, all boys) high school was “pocomp.” It was apparently an acronym, as I overheard one kid explain—in effect, Bill Clinton asked Paula Jones to do, only with more technical jargon (remember, this was a Catholic school, so cleverness was valued over explicitude).
Anyway, whichever of the sports reporters for the high school paper managed to use the word in a headline, probably became and probably still is the champ.
How the lot of you escaped being hired by the Edwards campaign, I cannot imagine.
I am a public school teacher today. (middle school no less)
My kids often try to pull off a stunt like this…and I just laugh at them and tell them they are a bunch of noobs.
The same thing with cheating…they’re always amazed that I catch them..and I tell them they wouldn’t have lasted two days back in my old school…
I do have to admit they have me beat with the text messaging though…I manage to catch about one a week..but my snitches tell me it’s happening every day.
You lack subtlety, grasshopper(s).
My cohort practiced the Ishihara maneuver, named for the inventor, which was saved for poor unsuspecting substitute teachers. This consisted of waiting for whenever the sub faced the blackboard, at which time we would all pick up our desks and move forward precisely 0.5 inches. By the end of class the sub would be crushed up against the blackboard with no clue how it had happened. bwahahahah.
“He did it! The spotty one with the braces!”
It’s a fair cop, but society’s to blame.
We played the same game in HS, but we used “ratfuck” instead. Good times. Good times.
Ah, or “The Penis Game” as it was called.
Superlative!
We called it “you’re an asshole”. Had to say it twice. First guy would say it, second guy would say, “what?” first guy would say, “I said, you’re an asshole.” It would go around the room until the last guy had to yell it.
The hope was that the teacher would say something like, “what was that you said, Mr. Cookies?” and you’d have to yell, “I said, you’re an asshole!” right back at him.
Only worked once, in Senior German. We had this like 22 year-old woman teaching a bunch of 18-year old guys.
The answer to the obvious question is “no” and “you really wouldn’t want to.”
”…so cleverness was valued over explicitude”
Well, yeah.
Dan,
Your wife teaches at a Waldorf school? Awesome. All three of my sons attend Waldorf School of Baltimore. We love it. My eldest is in fourth grade, and is really starting to grow into learning. It’s been fabulous to watch.
Highly recommended to all parents. At least explore it. It may not necessarily fit your paradigm, but the kids really learn how to learn, which is probably the most important thing in education today.
Oh. And sorry for breaking into your humorous asides with such a straight and humorless interjection. I’ll try not to let it happen again!
Yeah, Nuke ‘m, she teaches at the Waldorf High School up here. Some of the anthroposophical stuff seems weird to me, but the educational method gets results, and at least the background philosophy keeps parents thinking about their children’s development, and what’s most important about human being.
Also from the other side, Mr. Bannister, part-time physics teacher/part-time wildcat electrician/part-time farmer, who gave us the following lesson in detecting the presence of electricity. Take the plug end of a cord from a discarded lamp and strip the other end back a bit. To test for the presence of electricity, plug into a receptacle and, using your farm callused forefinger and thumb, pinch the bare ends lightly. A tingly feeling meant electricity was present. No tingly feeling, pinch harder.