Kiss My Grits

I was thinking about the last two years on the way here this morning, and I caught myself actually thinking about how this gig hasn't been so bad. Sure, the teachers here are unprincipled hypocrites, but so what? It hasn't been that bad, I thought. Then I remembered how strangely the whole jump-drive business was handled -- what with the obvious lying and the cruel double-standard -- and how I haven't felt this alienated from the people around me since I was getting spit on back at Roseville Area Middle School. And also how much I hate little kids... mostly because they smell like poop. But never mind that now.

There's a little less than an hour left in my time at this job, and I'm trying to kill that time as effectively as I can. Inventories complete, summer prep done... everything official has been taken care of (and the Washington Post has been thoroughly read), so I'm left to kill time in the traditional way: with a sharpened toothebrush-end and a surly prowl through the exercise yard. There are five whitey haystack crackers who owe me a carton of cigarettes each; if they don't pay up, I'm going to be forced to cut them and wash my feet with their blood.

And if you see Raphael, you tell that gabacho bastard that I'm coming for him. He's going to kiss the rings or he's going to be my bitch. And you know how I like to make my bitches dress all scanty and wear make-up. Raphael will be no different.