Here's The Thing

After a night of five-and-a-half hours of only once-interrupted sleep, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom felt like an old woman this morning. Which is better than the urinal cake from an STD convention men's room that she felt like yesterday morning.

We have been playing the new student lottery at school this semester, and have yet to pick a winner. My relative the Sack Lunch Nazi was just enlightening us on the newest one this morning at lunch, when Mr. Principal took offense and declared that she couldn't handle the truth, which was that he had sent THREE of these newbies directly to alternative school, do not pass go, do not collect your $200 electronic food benefits card. No sirree, Bob! If we think the ones sitting in class are the dregs of the kegger, take a walk of a mile in his moccasins on the wild side, and see how we like it, by cracky!

Seriously. How do these people find our peaceful little district? Could it be the three prisons within a 20-mile radius? My lunch buddies thought not. They looked at each other like Otter and his Animal Housemates right before they chanted "Road trip!" and went on that excursion to pick up dearly departed Fawn Leibowitz's roomie and friends to go dancing at the Dexter Lake Club. "Mind if we dance wif yo dates?" But I digress. The point is, at the exact same moment, the Newmentia First Lunch Sacred Harp Singers looked at each other and shouted, "Cheap housing!" Which begs the question, aren't there any people with well-mannered children looking for cheap housing?

That incident ties for the high point of my day, the second being a jokester who will one day end up on TV, mark my words, as some type of entertainer, though not necessarily a fine actor. Oh, his acting is good enough for ninth grade physics class. He can make himself cry. Whoop-ti-freakin'-doo, The Pony can also make himself cry as the mood suits him. Little Mr. Actor's Workshop declared that a student in the front row had hurt his feelings by calling him a fat fag, which did not happen, and we all knew it, but that was his motivation. A girl in the front spouted, "She doesn't like me anyway, and you're going to get me in trouble." Which is just about like the pot calling herself a black kettle, since neither Little Mister nor myself accused any one person of doing the imagined dirty deed, because everyone in the room but Kettle Caller knew it was a joke.

See, here's the thing...don't blame all your problems on me not liking you. Because first of all, I did not even know you people when you came in my door in August, and if I have had to correct you weekly since then for being turned around in your seat talking instead of facing the front and listening...well, I don't think it's an issue of likes or dislikes, but rather an issue of you not being able to take responsibility for your actions when you are reprimanded for your behavior. And rather than straighten up and fly right, you have chosen to repeat your misbehaving actions and be corrected again and again.

I am really easy to get along with if you just follow the rules. I don't even mind when you call yourself a fat fag and fake cry. Because that's the kind of gal I am.