to toss the evidence into the grass. Hey, it’s just goose shit, or someone must’ve walked their dog here sometime. A gallant try to rid the proof of his acutely increased parasympathetic tone, but that’s when he got caught. He might have been better off keeping it in his pants, but then again, he still had more than half a mile to run and a shorts-full of the sloppy slurry from his sweat, shit and friction would’ve been intolerable. It was the epitome of a no win situation – the mind hazy from lack of oxygen, the body weak from maximal exertion, and fresh shit in the tightie used-to-be whities. He got sent to the nurse, and then sent home.
Michael was not too popular after that. Didn’t matter how much weed he smoked or sold, he became the kid that shit his pants. Someone also started a rumor a week later that he pissed his pants during a Social Studies exam. Since it was proven he was able to become totally incontinent of stool, it was only a small leap to take to peg him as incontinent of urine too. And in light of him recently shitting his shorts, he had no credibility in denying any excrement related stories, even though I have yet to find anyone that actually saw his piss on pants. He did eventually amp up his drug use to coke. He got arrested in high school for gun possession and went into the juvenile justice system. Last I heard was that Michael is locked up in the state penitentiary serving ten to twenty for dealing heroin.
The slight bit of good news here was that only drug Xander looked to be on was cheeseburgers.
“Xander, did you run the mile in gym?”
“Last week I did.”
“Did you poop your pants?”
“What? No.”
From his tone I could tell he really hadn’t. I guess Xander is just a shitless Fat Ferry. He hates gym because he just sucks at gym.
“You know Xander, marine biologists need to be in good shape to get down to the wildlife they want to study. Swimming, climbing ocean shorelines, exploring deep waters – you need to be fit in order to do all that. And gym class is a great opportunity to get some exercise every day to start getting healthy for a career in marine biology.”
I thought that little pep talk was pretty good for just having made all of it up in streaming thought. Kate perked up. “That’s so true, honey, and you want to be a good marine biologist, right?”
Xander just nodded.
“Jacque Cousteau was a fit guy, and he was one of the most famous marine biologists ever.” Another stroke of inspiration. Who knows if that’s even true, but I always picture Captain Nemo from the movie “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” when I think of Jacque and that captain was a fit enough guy to beat on a giant squid and survive an angry tentacle grasp.
Xander finally looked up from his book. “I will try harder in gym.”
That’s nice. It’s a bunch of crap, but it’s still nice. The world could use another Jacque Cousteau. Even an overweight one. But the amount of time and effort it would take for Xander to even get back to average fitness was massive, certainly dwarfing the medicine droppers of help thirty minutes of half-hearted gym class activity would ever add. It’s a vicious circle for fat kids in gym: so big they can’t compete with the other kids, so they don’t put in as much effort as the other kids, so they become even less competitive, then they get tossed to the sidelines, then they put in even less effort, so that eventually gym becomes thirty minutes of standing against padded walls on hardwood. Not enough activity to even burn off a can of soda. And having a teacher whose primary credentials are being able to wear shorts and inflate various balls doesn’t help with instilling motivation. Neither is the seeping sentiment that gym is extraneous – it’s always the
Michael was not too popular after that. Didn’t matter how much weed he smoked or sold, he became the kid that shit his pants. Someone also started a rumor a week later that he pissed his pants during a Social Studies exam. Since it was proven he was able to become totally incontinent of stool, it was only a small leap to take to peg him as incontinent of urine too. And in light of him recently shitting his shorts, he had no credibility in denying any excrement related stories, even though I have yet to find anyone that actually saw his piss on pants. He did eventually amp up his drug use to coke. He got arrested in high school for gun possession and went into the juvenile justice system. Last I heard was that Michael is locked up in the state penitentiary serving ten to twenty for dealing heroin.
The slight bit of good news here was that only drug Xander looked to be on was cheeseburgers.
“Xander, did you run the mile in gym?”
“Last week I did.”
“Did you poop your pants?”
“What? No.”
From his tone I could tell he really hadn’t. I guess Xander is just a shitless Fat Ferry. He hates gym because he just sucks at gym.
“You know Xander, marine biologists need to be in good shape to get down to the wildlife they want to study. Swimming, climbing ocean shorelines, exploring deep waters – you need to be fit in order to do all that. And gym class is a great opportunity to get some exercise every day to start getting healthy for a career in marine biology.”
I thought that little pep talk was pretty good for just having made all of it up in streaming thought. Kate perked up. “That’s so true, honey, and you want to be a good marine biologist, right?”
Xander just nodded.
“Jacque Cousteau was a fit guy, and he was one of the most famous marine biologists ever.” Another stroke of inspiration. Who knows if that’s even true, but I always picture Captain Nemo from the movie “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” when I think of Jacque and that captain was a fit enough guy to beat on a giant squid and survive an angry tentacle grasp.
Xander finally looked up from his book. “I will try harder in gym.”
That’s nice. It’s a bunch of crap, but it’s still nice. The world could use another Jacque Cousteau. Even an overweight one. But the amount of time and effort it would take for Xander to even get back to average fitness was massive, certainly dwarfing the medicine droppers of help thirty minutes of half-hearted gym class activity would ever add. It’s a vicious circle for fat kids in gym: so big they can’t compete with the other kids, so they don’t put in as much effort as the other kids, so they become even less competitive, then they get tossed to the sidelines, then they put in even less effort, so that eventually gym becomes thirty minutes of standing against padded walls on hardwood. Not enough activity to even burn off a can of soda. And having a teacher whose primary credentials are being able to wear shorts and inflate various balls doesn’t help with instilling motivation. Neither is the seeping sentiment that gym is extraneous – it’s always the
Similar Books
