Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Crankytown (Won't You Take Me to...)
It's happened again. Due to circumstances far beyond my control, I once again find myself an unwilling resident of...Crankytown.
I don't wish for this to be the case. I'd love to be, for example, giddy. Giddy would be nice. But I'm not. I'm just plain old pissy.
This is due, in part, to my continuing disgust with the Bush administration and the evil things they do. (The fact that it took me about a minute and a half to find five links to evil Bush shit has just increased my disgust.) It's due, also, to the continuing stress of working in a job where pimply thirteen-year-olds get away with saying, "I'm'a slap your face like a bitch" to me with no real consequences.
But mostly it's because my wife is out of town again. Deep sigh.
I spent a large part of the day once again being Mister Yelly Guy in my classes. I yelled at kids who were too noisy, I yelled at kids who weren't paying attention, I yelled at kids who looked at me wrong. I got super-pissed when, after ordering pizza for the class who'd earned the most points from me in January, and not eating all morning in anticipation of having a few slices myself, the kids passed out too much to each student and we ran out before I could have so much as a piece of crust. I didn't yell that time, but I seethed. I seethed like a motherfucker.
Now, normally, I'd let this sort of feeling linger and I'd spend the entirety of my wife's trip being an utterly miserable prick. This time, I'm not going to do that. This time, I'm going to improve my mood, whatever it takes. If I have to spend two hours tickling my own ass with a feather, I'm going to get happy.
Just you wait, world. You're going to see a shinier, happier Joe in the next few days. (And hopefully I won't have to go anywhere near my ass with a feather to achieve this.)
You can start by ordering a whole pizza just for you, buying some beer to wash it down with, and then eat and drink in front of the television with full control of the remote.
I suggest buying a Bowie knife and bringing it to class.Post a Comment
"The next motherfucker gets wise gets a taste of hot searing death."
And then, before the pizza at the next pizza party is passed out, you kerplunk that big fuckin' knife in the slice you want.
"Want pizza, bitches? Want that with a side of hot searing death?"