Read Online Learn Me Gooder by John Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Pearson
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when you hit someone, you keel over and scream incessantly. After a few minutes of interrogation, I discovered that the boy on the ground had slapped the other boy on the butt, so THAT boy turned around and kicked the first kid in the junk. Hard, judging by his continued caterwauling.
It’s a shame that he didn’t add, “It’s for science,” because then I would have felt justified in letting it go. Instead, I had to wait for a kindergarten teacher to show up and take control. When she asked what happened, I told her that the poor little guy got kicked in the mancock.
Her eyes widened, but all she said was, “Oh!” So I added, “Also, I think he may have a functional voiding disturbance.”
OK, so you’re not the only one who’s a genius/crazy fruitcake.
Yours truly,
John Mancock
Date: Friday, October 16, 2009
To: Fred Bommerson
From: Jack Woodson
Subject: They call me MISTER Teacher
Dude,
I don’t care if one definition of mancock is “the awesomest source of awesomeness in the universe” – you don’t name a Pee Wee football team something so close to something so anatomically private! I’m worried about the league Kevin is playing in. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if his next matchups are against the Titmouses, the Spotted Dicks, and the Golden Taints.
Ugh. Now I feel the need to take a shower again. Let’s move off of weird team names and on to weird kids.
I have a little girl in my class this year, Shelly, who doesn’t quite seem all there. She’s a sweet enough little girl, and so far, she appears to be doing all right academically. However, there are frequently times when I talk to her face to face, and I can tell that the light is on, but nobody’s home.
One major issue, she ALWAYS calls me “Miss Woodson.” She’s not being malicious or trying to cut me down, she just feels for some reason that that’s what she should call me. When I try to explain to her that I am a man, and therefore I should be addressed as “Mister,” she gets a puzzled look on her face, as if I was telling her that Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy were not real.
I thought for a while that perhaps Shelly called everyone Miss and was completely unfamiliar with any other prefix. But that was disproven a couple of days into the school year. The art teacher and I were monitoring the drop-off zone out in front of the school when Shelly’s aunt pulled up and let her out. Shelly ran past us yelling, “Good morning, Mister Vann! Good morning, Miss Woodson!!”
Maybe it’s just me, though I do consider myself to be somewhat manly looking. I mean, my Adam’s apple is as prominent as the next guy’s, and I rock a mean three-day stubble. I don’t think that she actually views me as a female. So I’m at a loss as to why she can’t understand why I wouldn’t be MISTER Woodson.
I can just imagine what would happen if I lined up with a bunch of people with various jobs and let Shelly greet all of us.
“Good morning, Mister Ramsey!
Good morning, Doctor Barton!
Good morning, Judge Carson!
Good morning, Special Agent Johnson!
Good morning, Archduke Fielder!
Good morning, Miss Woodson!”
This afternoon, I noticed that Shelly was writing notes at her desk while we were going over the homework. When I told her that she needed to be paying attention and grading along with us, she looked shocked and replied, “But I was writing a note to YOU!”
She said this very defensively, as if she was thinking, “When we walked into class today, our two choices were to either pay attention and do the work or to daydream and write notes – and I made my choice!”
I told her that it was very sweet of her, but that she needed to do that at home, not during math class. Still affronted, she continued, “It’s a note about how you’re my favorite teacher!”
I glanced quickly at the paper on her desk and saw little hearts lining the edges. At that moment, I was very thankful that I hadn’t just
It’s a shame that he didn’t add, “It’s for science,” because then I would have felt justified in letting it go. Instead, I had to wait for a kindergarten teacher to show up and take control. When she asked what happened, I told her that the poor little guy got kicked in the mancock.
Her eyes widened, but all she said was, “Oh!” So I added, “Also, I think he may have a functional voiding disturbance.”
OK, so you’re not the only one who’s a genius/crazy fruitcake.
Yours truly,
John Mancock
Date: Friday, October 16, 2009
To: Fred Bommerson
From: Jack Woodson
Subject: They call me MISTER Teacher
Dude,
I don’t care if one definition of mancock is “the awesomest source of awesomeness in the universe” – you don’t name a Pee Wee football team something so close to something so anatomically private! I’m worried about the league Kevin is playing in. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if his next matchups are against the Titmouses, the Spotted Dicks, and the Golden Taints.
Ugh. Now I feel the need to take a shower again. Let’s move off of weird team names and on to weird kids.
I have a little girl in my class this year, Shelly, who doesn’t quite seem all there. She’s a sweet enough little girl, and so far, she appears to be doing all right academically. However, there are frequently times when I talk to her face to face, and I can tell that the light is on, but nobody’s home.
One major issue, she ALWAYS calls me “Miss Woodson.” She’s not being malicious or trying to cut me down, she just feels for some reason that that’s what she should call me. When I try to explain to her that I am a man, and therefore I should be addressed as “Mister,” she gets a puzzled look on her face, as if I was telling her that Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy were not real.
I thought for a while that perhaps Shelly called everyone Miss and was completely unfamiliar with any other prefix. But that was disproven a couple of days into the school year. The art teacher and I were monitoring the drop-off zone out in front of the school when Shelly’s aunt pulled up and let her out. Shelly ran past us yelling, “Good morning, Mister Vann! Good morning, Miss Woodson!!”
Maybe it’s just me, though I do consider myself to be somewhat manly looking. I mean, my Adam’s apple is as prominent as the next guy’s, and I rock a mean three-day stubble. I don’t think that she actually views me as a female. So I’m at a loss as to why she can’t understand why I wouldn’t be MISTER Woodson.
I can just imagine what would happen if I lined up with a bunch of people with various jobs and let Shelly greet all of us.
“Good morning, Mister Ramsey!
Good morning, Doctor Barton!
Good morning, Judge Carson!
Good morning, Special Agent Johnson!
Good morning, Archduke Fielder!
Good morning, Miss Woodson!”
This afternoon, I noticed that Shelly was writing notes at her desk while we were going over the homework. When I told her that she needed to be paying attention and grading along with us, she looked shocked and replied, “But I was writing a note to YOU!”
She said this very defensively, as if she was thinking, “When we walked into class today, our two choices were to either pay attention and do the work or to daydream and write notes – and I made my choice!”
I told her that it was very sweet of her, but that she needed to do that at home, not during math class. Still affronted, she continued, “It’s a note about how you’re my favorite teacher!”
I glanced quickly at the paper on her desk and saw little hearts lining the edges. At that moment, I was very thankful that I hadn’t just
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