Jamel likes Riti's friends

My best friend Jason is awesome. He is so fucking funny. My students (tards) love Jason for this reason: He is 6'8". He volunteers once a week at my school to be a "lunch buddy" with Jamel, the Sudanese kid.

Jamel's world is similar to Tucker Max's in this respect: He is the most self-absorbed little fuck ever. Unless it concerns him, Jamel is completely uninterested. 

A few days ago Jason showed up to eat lunch with Jamel. He then went out to recess with Jamel. At one point, I go out on the playground to talk to him. We are talking shit about the retards when Jamel runs up, hugs Jared's leg, and yells,

"Your cool AND funny AND you're my friend!" 

Jason's immediate response: "What do you mean I'm funny?"

I know exactly where he is going with this, I am loving it immediately. 

"What do mean, you mean the way I talk?" Jamel realizes I am laughing my ass off and laughs with me, even though he has has no idea why I am laughing 

"Funny how? I mean what's so funny about me?" I am still laughing, and Jamel is too, and he is still oblivious to why either of us are laughing 

"Let me understand this cause, I don't know kid, maybe it's me, I'm a little messed up maybe, but I'm funny how? Like I'm a clown? I amuse you. I make you laugh...I'm here to amuse you. What do you mean funny how? How am I SO FUNNY?" 

At this point, another mature (read: old and lame) teacher is walking toward us. Jason stops with the Goodfellas imitation, and Jamel screams to the teacher, "My friend is cool and funny and he eats lunch with me and no one else if I am good on Wednesday!!"

Augusta the thief

On the last day of school prior to Christmas Break I gave all my tards a Happy Holidays card in an envelope with their name on the front. I also taped a candy cane to the front of each of the cards as well. I put the card in their "cubby" prior to the start of school. Their cubby is the last thing they check each day before school is out. They all had lots of stuff to take home, so their cubbies were quite full. 

At the end of the day, as they were packing up and clearing out their cubbies, they all found their cards, yet none had the candy cane taped to them anymore. It was obvious that something had been taped on the front, because there was tape remaining on the card with part of the ripped card attached to it. But there was not one fucking candy cane to be seen. One of the tards had stolen all of the candy canes!!

Tards begin immediately whining and stomping around the classroom. This is the last thing I need. It had been a long day, the bell was about to ring, and I did not have anymore candy canes. I start looking through cubbies, backpacks, etc, yet could find the candycanes nowhere. At this point I actually considered giving them each a buck. The only reason I didn't do this was because I didn't have the right change. And NO tard is worthy of a twenty. 

My classroom has reached the chaotic stage, and only minutes before Christmas Break. I consider handing out stickers. Just then, dear Augusta (from Archive #3, Meet Augusta--but don't touch him) comes back from the bathroom. He looks guilty as fuck, he had already unloaded his cubby, had his backpack on, and had a slight red discoloration all around his glossy lips. Hmmm.

I told him that we were missing a bunch of candy canes, and asked him if he had received a card from me, and if there was a candy cane attached to it. He gave me a dumbfounded look. I asked again, and he told me he didn't remember. I then asked him to unload his backpack. He furiosuly licked his lips and said that he left his library book in the library and that he needed to go get it right then. At this response, I knew that fat ass had lifted the canes.

I told him that I needed him to unload his backpack so I could make sure his card from me was in it. He refused. So I turned him around by the shoulders, which really freaks him out, unzip his backpack and find about 10 rainbow candy canes. The same ones I gave out. 

Augusta had lied and  stolen from his classmates. I was floored. I told him that immediately following the  break he would lose a week of recess. He didn't like hearing that. In fact, he freaked. I also made him pass out candy canes and apologize to each and every retard. This went over even less well.

Just so I would not forget what the fucker had done, I wrote, in huge letters on my wipeboard- "NO RECESS AUGUSTA, ONE WEEK."

Riti's favorite tard

Last year I had the best tard ever, but sadly, she moved away over the summer. I always think about her. She was always so happy. She smiled, did whatever you said without question, and never, ever abused me. She was cute, too. She had cerebral palsy that caused her to sway randomly and bob her head around for no apparent reason. She also loved me. 

One day I got mad at her because during her typing time, she was messing around and pressing a bunch of keys down at once, going real fast, etc. I told her I was disappointed in her and she started to cry. I actually felt bad about it. The only thing that really bothered me about her was that she asked lots of random, pointless questions, and at unacceptable times.

This was the scenario one particular day last year:

I am working one-on-one with her doing sequencing activities. Her and I are the only people in the entire room. She is continuously asking me "Miss [Sped] what did you do over the weekend?" 

First of all, she is unable to comprehend anything complex. Complex includes past tense, future tense, and basic language recognition and association. Secondly, if I honestly told her about the debaucheries of my weekend, I would have been fired on the spot. 

Anyway, I am trying to do the lesson with her, and she keeps asking me about my weekend. I would make up a few simple activities, like going for a walk or brushing my teeth, and tell her I did them. She would then ask, "What else did you do over the weekend?," over and over. 

We were getting nothing done, it was a hot day outside, the classroom was hot because the a/c was not working properly, and I was getting angry. She then looks at me and asks, "Miss [Sped], What did you eat over the weekend?" 

After half an hour of her, this question put me over the edge. I look her straight in the eyes and say "Poop!" 

She gasped, totally in disbelief of what I had just said, and responded, "Miss [Sped] I’m going to tell your mom on you."

12/22: A review of Riti Sped's Christmas gifts:

The season of giving takes a whole new meaning when you are a special education teacher. Every year I get ridiculous gifts. I would rather get a simple hug around my legs accompanied by large quantities of drool, rather than what my kids bring me. For the most part I just thank the tards, take the gifts home, re-wrap them, and give them to other tards in my class. No one knows the difference, and everyone is happy. Here are some of the gifts I got this year: 

--The stickers are from Brad, the kid who furiously tore apart his stickerbook while calling me an asshole and a greedy bitch in entry 12/2, Tards and stickers. Because of this specific outburst, all of the tards will be rewarded with these stickers for their stickerbooks except for Brad.

--A used book. The binding is worn and it even smells like mothballs. Great. The Frango breathmints are a nice touch. This is a puzzling gift, because I am the only one out of all the kids who actually brushes their teeth on a regular basis. 

--Unpackaged cocoa mix and marshmallows! SOMEBODY fucking touched this shit. Thanks, I'll pass on the Christmas Hepatitis C to all my friends. I'm sure they'll be very appreciative.

--An assortment of stupid shit:

1. I have always hated stretch mittens. Especially this pair--blue and green stripes?! I wouldn't give these to a freezing homeless person, and even if I did he'd probably throw them back in my face.
2. Stupid Cheap Christmas Ornaments. I don't have a fucking tree, and these ornaments are gay anyway. If you want any of the pictured ornaments, they are currently in the dumpster behind my house.
3. More fucking cocoa mix! I've never once drank cocoa in front of my tards, or ever claimed to like it, yet come Christmas time, I get it by the bushel. At least this time it is packaged. It will sit in the top drawer of my desk for years, until I use it as a birthday gift for one of my other tards.
4. Washable markers? Yes, thank you, I am not retarded, I can draw inside the lines and on appropriate surfaces.
5. A book about the solar system. What am I going to do with this? Read it to the class? They won't understand it.

--This is a tard card. This is the front of the card

and this is the message on the inside.

 This card is funny for the following reasons:
1. It is a cat saying "Hi Hun."
2. The front says, "To: Miss [Sped] From: ???" The girl who gave this to me did so in person, and she also signed her fucking name on the inside. So what is up with the little guessing game????
3. Numerous misspellings. Some are phonetically impossible. I blame myself, as I am obviously a poor teacher. Oh wait, nevermind, she's retarded.

--Chocolate dipped pretzel sticks wrapped in Kleenex, in the cardboard box, with the Homer Simpson pencil holder that has "Carpe Diem: Seize the Donut" written on the front. I don't even know what to say about this.

--A dog dish. This I actually like. It is a hell of a paint job, especially for a tard. It was painted at one of those little places where you pick out something and paint it (note that I already put some of my shit in it.)


--This is classic. The Starbucks Christmas bear--from 2000--in a "Happy Birthday" bag. My birthday is in July. Maybe the tard's parents can't read either.

--Your run of the mill tard love letter.

--I got a Starbucks gift card from a girl whose mom has attempted suicide numerous times. The gift card was for 20 bucks. I was slightly excited about it, because this is finally a gift I can use, as opposed to the normal tard gifts.

I tried to use it the next day. The Starbucks cashier swiped it, and then asked me to wait while she got a manager. The card had never been activated! The mother had jacked it from Starbucks without considering the whole activation aspect.

It was so embarrassing. I didn't even try to explain the story to the manager because it is so ridiculous. Everyone there thought I stole it and and tried to use it. I paid for the latte, but was angry and embarrassed about it. To The Mom: Merry Fucking Christmas to you, too.

--I did get one good thing---a Barnes and Noble gift card. And this one was not stolen! The mom is a nurse and normal. Once I opened it I knew exactly what it would be used for: My new coffee table book will be Tucker Max's Definitive Book of Pick-Up Lines.

Tard flips out, makes a mess

A lot of tards need to have a plastic grip on their pencil in order to develop necessary hand coordination and writing skills. Tom likes picking at his grip and taking it off. I told him that if he continued to fuck with it, I would take the pencil all together. Well, I took the pencil. Predictably, he freaked.


This is the aftermath of his angry, violent temper tantrum.

Every student is funny in their own way

Emily ALWAYS unties her shoes. Due to retardation, she was unable to re-tie them. It got old fast.

Her mom used to send whole oranges, cold spaghetti, slabs of fucking beefstick, etc. for her lunch. Nothing is easy in special ed land.

Lewis is another case. Truly, a case. He is in fifth grade and likes to flap his arms like a bird. He is amusing though, because he will say things to you like "Do you have a hyperlink on your website to the Parkland School District." 

One time I said to him "Lewis, so funny you are." He stops, thinks for a while, and says "You said 'so funny you are' instead of 'you are so funny'..........I like that." He recently said, "wouldn't it be funny if you snuck a camera into Costco and secretly took a bunch of pictures of fat people. Then put them all on a website and call it www.piggiesatcostco.com. [Ed. note-This is not a real website].

Even punishments can be funny

If the tards are bad at recess, they have to sit at the "ball box" and untangle the jumpropes. It is virtually impossible for them. I make them do it so I can watch them get frustrated and kick and grunt. These are the small pleasures that make my day tolerable.

Tard doesn't like rat tails either

The naughtiest kid I had last year was in second grade. He did and said unbelievable things on a daily basis. One of my favorites was when he approached a non-sped fifth grader whom he did know and said "You smell like your mom."

In June of last year we had a fire drill. Somehow, this kid had managed to smuggle a pair of scissors out with him as we exited the building. The whole school lined up on the field out front during these drills. Everyone is also supposed to be silent.

I found it odd that during the drill this particular kid wasn't being noisy and annoying. I walked back to the end of the line where he was. In his hand he had the scissors and a chunk of human hair. He had cut the rat-tail off of the boys hair who was standing in front of him! (You know what a rat tail is--think 1980's white trash, a thin mullet that hangs just from the bottom).

I freaked out, not knowing what to do. I took the scissors and the hair from him, said nothing to the boy whose hair had been cut, and pretended that nothing happened. Surprisingly, nothing was ever mentioned about the missing rat-tail.

Tard nearly ruins date

This is where I draw the fucking line. What happened to me last night was not part of the contract I signed.

I am at the grocery store with a guy I go out with sometimes. He had been studying abroad for the last year, so I was really excited to see him. We are getting beer to take to a Christmas party that we are going to, the location of which happened to be in the area of the school that I work in.

We are walking to the beer aisle, and I spot one of my tards pushing a grocery cart. He is with his mom and brother. All I want is for me to get the beer and get the hell out. I really didn't want to talk to them or subject my date to them. We make it to the beer aisle, pick up some Heinekens, and head for the checkout.

We are standing in line to pay when I hear a scream and a familiar voice yell "I love you Miss [Sped]!".

I think about turning around, but am suddenly rammed hard from behind with the shopping cart. I had to grab the conveyor belt thing to keep from barreling over. The tard then starts hugging me tightly, while screaming "I love you Miss [Sped]!" This continues for at least a full minute.

My date is dying--he is laughing so fucking hard that he is doubled over. People are staring at me and the tard that is embracing me and yelling. The checker has stopped checking and his full attention is focused on the tard and I. I cannot stop wondering where the fuck his mom is.

I know the solution to get him to calm down. But I am out with this amazing guy. I don't wanna do it. I really don't. But I realize the tard will not shut up and get off of me until I do...

Quietly, I start singing "The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round......."

My date is absolutely dying. Almost crying. But the tard shut the fuck up, and we got out of there, no retards attached to me.

Tard brings candy, flips out

The green cupcakes in the picture are from a kids 7th birthday that was celebrated during class.

As he was passing them out, he actually tried to decide who he was and wasn't going to give a cupcake too. I told him that that wasn't a choice--everyone gets one or no one gets one.

He flipped out, took two of them, and smashed them on the lenses of his glasses.

The cupcakes were so foul looking. That weird shade of green, and there were these little white speckles all over the top of it. Speckles that were in the frosting already. I have no fucking clue what that shit is.

Tard nearly kills old person

Last spring, we used to have senior citizens from the local retirement home volunteer at our school. Every Thursday morning the retirement home's shuttle bus would drop them all off. They stopped coming to volunteer because of this incident:

In case I haven't already made this clear: Tards get extremely attached to things, but it is very hard for them to express their emotional attachment appropriately.
One Thursday morning, I am walking four of my 1st grade tards to the gym for "adapted P.E." One of them spots one of the grandmas getting off the bus. He freaks out, lets loose an ear-splitting scream, and charges her like a fucking bull, knocking her to the ground, really, really hard.

I run over and pull him off of her. She is laying flat on her back on the pavement in front of the school, writhing in what is obviously excruciating pain. The office ultimately had to call an ambulance, and she was taken to the hospital with a broken collar bone and numerous broken vertebrae.

All from a tard trying to give her a hug.

Another Francis story

The school district does not provide snacks to the special services departments. Some tards bring their own snack from home and some don't. Because of this, I ask that parents donate snacks for the tards. The most common things sent in are goldfish crackers, animal crackers, pretzels, etc.

One morning Francis (see entry 12/5a: Francis, for a description of him) comes into the room with two big boxes of Lucky Charms. How nice, I thought, for the huge fat kid to bring in snacks.

Upon further investigation of the Lucky Charms, I discover that both boxes are open. Also, there is not ONE FUCKING MARSHMALLOW in either box. NOT ONE!!!!

Put yourself in my shoes here, What the hell do you do? Ask the fat tard about the marshmallows? Call his mother? I mean, the cereal was donated. I ended up throwing it out. No marshmallows probably means that his little piggy snot covered hands had been in those boxes.

Meet Augusta...but don't touch him

Augusta is a new student this year. He appears very normal. He is polite, social, ordinary looking and appropriate (for the most part). The kid is even kind of intelligent. But he hates going to school and he is fucking lazy. He's missed 13 school days so far this year. And when he is present, he is late. Always. There is no exception to this.

Augusta had major issues at his last school, which is why he transferred. Basically, no one liked him there, and, well, no one likes him here. He is overweight and German and his name is Augusta (pronounced Agoostah)--just like the fat kid in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
The kid has severe issues with being touched. This classifies his needs as special, and that’s why I deal with him. During a meeting at the beginning of the school year, some co-workers and I met with his parents and his old teacher.

One thing was made abundantly clear at this meeting: DO NOT TOUCH AUGUSTA. EVER.

Don’t even brush by him, or remove a piece of lint from his hair. If you do, he goes fucking nuts and has to go home to shower and change his clothes. He is one of those "always wash my hands, afraid of germs" types. We have all heard of them, or have read about them in publications like TIME magazine. But this kid is 11. And is already a fucking head case.

Many times I have walked by the office and have seen him sitting there with his backpack, waiting for a parent to come and pick him up. I will ask the secretary if he is sick or something, and she just looks at me and says "someone touched him."

Everyone in the entire school knows not to touch him. It was even announced at an assembly prior to his coming to our school in late September.

During the middle of October we had an assembly. It was a couple of homo’s that were putting on a juggling show. The kids loved the guys; their tricks, and all the retard-type shit they would say throughout the show. At one point in the assembly, the guys asked for a couple of volunteers to help them perform a stunt. Augusta shoots his hand up , and, for the love of God, he gets chosen. He walks up to the front of the gym, and the first thing the guys do is shake his fucking hand while introducing him to the audience. I can see the mortified look on Augusta’s face. I can tell he doesn’t know what the hell to do. The juggler guys start handing him pins and bean bags and shit. They then take him by the shoulders, turn him around so that his back is to the audience. They blindfold him, and adjust the blindfold while it is on him. I am waiting for Augusta to lose it. A touch on the hand, the shoulders, and now the FACE!! I sit there, ready to jump out of my seat, waiting for his reaction. After they blindfold him they proceed to put objects in his hand and ask him to guess what they are.

This was the boiling point. Augusta drops the object, rips off the blindfold and throws it at the jugglers. Keep in mind that the entire school, kindergarten through sixth grade, as well as staff and parents, are watching this. He then violently kicks over all these bowling pins that were lined up on stage. He rips his shirt off, throws it on the ground, yells "PEOPLE AREN'T SUPPOSE TO TOUCH ME" so fucking loud, then runs out the side door to the parking lot.

The gym is silent. Nobody knows what the fuck to do or say. The jugglers were stunned but then quickly continued the show, which shifted the attention of most of the kids.

I run out after him, along with the principal and guidance counselor. He is running down the parking lot, off of school grounds. We are all yelling at him to stop. He doesn’t. I continue to run, the counselor goes to the office to call his parents, and the principal gets in his car to drive and capture him. Somehow, I lose him. The principal can’t find him either.

About 15 minutes later, I am still looking for him, and the office receives a call. The caller says that there is a child behind her wood pile next to her house, that he looks really shaken up, doesn’t have a shirt on, and that she doesn’t want to approach him. She guesses that he is from our school. The principal drives to her home, only a half block away, and finally gets Augusta to get into the car, but not until bribing him with a fucking ice cream bar.

I am sorry that I wasn’t in the car at the time, because our principal says that Augusta gets in the car, picks up a container of Armour-All wipes on the floor, and starts furiously scrubbing his body with them. He is all worked up and out of breath, scouring himself with moistened automobile cleaning wipes.

Back at the office his parents are there to get him. They are all worried, and when they see him they are like "Oh, Augusta, we are glad you are ok, we were so worried about you." They make no mention of the fact that he cursed and exposed himself to the entire school.

About a week later, we receive a signed, 8 ½ by 11 inch color photograph of the jugglers. "To Augusta: Keep Reading! Best wishes and our Apologies."

We call Augusta down to the office to give the photo to him. He takes one look at it, tears it up, tosses the pieces in the recycle bin, and says, just like a normal fucking person, "I didn’t like that assembly, I thought you guys knew that."

If you cross Miss Sped, you could get deported

One of my students had been acting overly silly and was talking out way too much. So, instead of attending the holiday party afternoon, this particular tard spent the time in the principals office--copying a fucking dictionary page.

I can't believe this is still a valid punishment. I was amazed when I saw this. I made him copy 6 pages, but one should give you the jist.

I wrote a letter to his parents, explaining his poor behavior, and asking if they could perhaps help me re-enforce these punishments. Their response blew my fucking mind. I love that the father keeps referring to me as "Sir."

I wrote the parents back and assured them that their son was a good person and was generally a good student, he had simply been acting out that particular day, and suggested that perhaps a 6-month grounding, loss of TV and Christmas, and threats of deportation were a little extreme. He is still in my class, and now I am afraid to tell his parents anything.

More parents stories

A sixth grader of mine, named Peter has come along way since last year. His behavior has improved (he used to do things like pull the fire alarm, not go in when the recess bell rang, chase girls and touch them inappropriately), his academic work is completed on time and with worthy effort. He is a good athlete, has a good sense of humor, and is an all-around great kid. He has no problems physically--he is just dumb as shit.
Conferences were the week before Thanksgiving, and his mother had a 4:00 conference scheduled with me. I was really looking forward to it, as I would FINALLY have something positive to say that was true. I had gathered some of his best writing, art projects, math tests, etc.

Four o’clock rolls around, and she is not there. I wait for her, thinking she is running late. A half an hour passes, and my next conference is scheduled to start (that parent didn’t show, either).

I re-file all the shit I had gathered to show the mother.

I had only seen the mother twice before. Once at a meeting that she HAD to attend in order to keep Peter from being expelled for strangling a girl in the library. I remember sitting there staring at her. It was the principal, the guidance counselor, his fifth grade teacher, two cops from the local police force, Peter and myself. She was definitely fucked in the head. She just sat there, staring into space. Every once in a while she would shake her head, or utter "damnit boy."

The next time I would see this woman, it became quite clear that she was for sure a fucking crack whore.

The Monday after Thanksgiving, Peter comes up to me and asks if his mom had come to the conference. I tell him no, and that it is a shame too because I had some really good things to tell her.

He looks at me in disbelief. He then tells me that on the day of the scheduled conference, his mom had gotten dressed up nice, and was putting on her coat. He asked her where she was going, and she told him that she was going to his conference.

Well, she lied. My guess is that she was heading down to stand outside Cinergy field to prostitute herself, as I had seen her there last May when I was going to a baseball game. She was dressed real trashy, with horrible make-up on, tons of gel in her hair, this little slut-like, sequined purse. And she didn’t have Red’s tickets. She fucking looks at me and turns away. She walks over to the Kettle Korn guy, and gets a popcorn sample. She then proceeds to walk across the street, and parks her big ass in front of The Ale House. She attempts to chat with every guy that was coming out of the beer garden. None of the guys really seemed to say shit to her. At this point, I need to go in, get two beers and garlic fries, as the game is about to start.

Seventh inning stretch time and the Reds are kicking fucking ass. The beer is cheaper outside the stadium, so I suggest to my friend that we continue getting wasted at the Ale House.

We walk outside, and stand at the crosswalk, waiting for the signal to cross, when this old ass rusted car with primer all over it rolls up. The car was so hideous and smoky and loud (ever seen Uncle Buck?). Anyway, it stops, and out of the passengers side jumps the mother. Her hair is messed up, make-up gone. There is a big hole in her nylons.

I was too drunk to talk to her, and I really didn’t want to anyway. That was the last time I have seen her. She doesn’t attend any functions for her son. Not even plays and shit that he is in.

I had, for the most part, forgotten about seeing her that night, until the conference issue arose. I even called their house to try and re-schedule a conference with her and she never called me back.

I send home weekly progress reports that a parent has to sign. They serve as the only means of communication I have with some of the parents. I don’t have to do this, but I truly do want my retards to be as successful as possible.

This past Tuesday, attached to Peter’s (unsigned) progress report is a note from her. The note says, "Please do not send these green sheets home for me to sign anymore. I already know what Peter does and what he needs to work on."

All I can think is, "Right, kinda like how you came to his conference."

With a mother like this, Peter doesn’t have a chance. It is sad when you think about it. But then it's funny immediately following that.

The post field-trip

Today, after the field trip we sit in a circle and everyone tells what they liked most about the said field trip. Now, this is my barely functioning group, kids with IQ’s of 18 month old babies. Most of the kids only use one word for their answer (rocks, mud, stick, etc.) usually they will just say another students name and that’s it. Today’s answers were a bit different.
Me: "Emmy, what was the part of the outing you liked the best?"

Emmy: "Boots, mine" (She sticks her leg in the air to showcase her big ass yellow moon boots with fur on top).

Me: "I need everyone’s eyes up here looking at me. Thank you. Now, Emmy really liked being able to wear her boots on our field trip. Jamel, what was the part of the outing that you liked best?"

Jamel: "Eat birds."

Only two of the other kids understand this. One starts to cry and the other gets up, runs to the sink, turns on the water, and sticks his head under the faucet.

And it’s only 12:30 p.m.

The field trip

On our field trip this morning, one of the reetees spotted a birds nest in a big bush. The whole gang tweeted. I cleared some branches out so the kids could take a closer look. There was one little egg in the nest. The kids were in awe. Especially when Jamel, my little Sudanese SBD child asks if he can touch the egg. I let him. He picks the egg up out of the basket and crushes it in his hand. At this, some kids are crying, others are wanting to see the inside. Jamel fucking licks the shit out of his fucking hand, then throws the shell on the ground, and smashes it profusely with his feet.

This is only one of many things that has occurred today. I am in my room, waiting for my 11:00 group to show up for math. It is 11:09, I begin to wonder where they are. Then I remind myself that they are retarded, and stop wondering.

Another long day

Tomorrow, the special ed kids are going on a field trip (walking around the school, outside, picking up garbage, and collecting and dumping the recycle bins). We also sing stupid ass songs that I, as a professional, am too embarrassed to discuss. E.g., "If you're happy and you know it" is a favorite.

We have one on the first Friday of each month. At the end of each trip, I want to kill myself. Especially when we sit in a circle and we each tell about our favorite part of the trip. There is only one rule, the Miss Sped rule--"Use your words." I wish I had a tall can for every time I have to say this fucking rule.

Last month, one of my tards actually ran away and hid UNDERNEATH a fucking portable classrom. Unbelievable. It was dirt, trash, rats and a retard under Portable 12.

Today I had a tard refuse to get off the fucking bus. Because of this, the bus driver was going to be late for his next pick-up. I thought he was gonna strangle my little tard with the tard-bus equipped safety restraint belt.

I am now going to a Mexican restaurant with my co-workers. Our principal schedules these little staff events, and buys everyone their first drink. As luck would have it, the teachers who can't make it authorize me to have their "first drink." I love these events. A bunch of 40 plus year olds talking about curriculum, standardized testing, etc, and me, the kid on the staff, talking about all sorts of things that are supposed to be confidential, downing Margaritas like its Cinco de fucking Mayo. I will eat this time though, as the embarrassment of having our speech-language pathologist call a cab for me last time was just too much.

Francis: The Worst Tard Ever

Today should be a good one as well. Being a half day, the typical schedule is a bit jumbled. Tardies DO NOT deal well with change. The last half day we had was the day before Thanksgiving, when I got socked in the eye by a distraught reetee.

I could probably compose a lengthy memoir about Francis, who was a student of mine last year. A brief description of just Francis, not even the shit he caused: 4th grade, 10 years old, 210 pounds, thick ass fucking glasses, a hearing aid, very slow speech, clothing that was always too tight, and the kicker: THE KID SHIT HIS PANTS MULTIPLE TIMES THROUGHOUT THE DAY!!!

Even Riti Sped can be immature

 had quite an incident with one of my kiddos, Tom today. He has severe behavior problems, and is on major medication. He also constantly picks at things. Anything that can be picked at, he will pick.

Today he came to school and he had what appeared to be an adhesive like substance on multiple places on his body (face, hands, arms, chest). He could focus on nothing but the sticky shit all over him. I was getting so angry, nothing was fazing him. I was putting zeroes on his behavior chart, threatening to take away his snack, call his mom, etc. He just didn't give a shit today. I kept asking him what the fuck was all over his body, and he kept responding to me, but I think in Russian or something. He has a severe speech impediment, you can barely understand the kid.

All I knew was that he was covered with shit, and smelled like Denny's or something. We were not getting anything accomplished, so when recess rolled around, I told him that because he wasted my time, I will waste his recess time. He had to finish his work during recess (his work consists of tracing letters, cutting out shapes, coloring pictures IN THE LINES, and putting a series of 3 pictures in the correct order--its not as if I was teaching him algebra or anything). When his little tard brain figured out that he wasn't going outside with the other kids, he absolutely fucking lost it. He starts kicking anything he can, pushing over chairs, breaking crayons, spitting.

I immediately hit the button on the wall to summon the principal. Now he really freaks out, and proceeds to strip naked. Absolutely fucking naked. He then plants his naked ass in the indoor classroom sandbox that has rice grains in it instead of sand, and is screaming out one word that I cannot, for the life of me decipher, and kicking rice all over the place. At this point, I refuse to be within 20 feet of him. Our principal walks in the room and asks "What is the problem?"

At this question, I can only wonder if the naked, screaming retard in the rice box is a figment of my imagination.

Our principal puts on his principal voice, grabs Tom's arm, and pulls him out of the ricebox. He then asks Tom why he keeps yelling "syrup".

He demands Tom put his clothes on. He puts on his underwear and pants, and refuses to put on anything else. The principal grabs his shoes, socks, shirt, and starts walking out. Tom freaks out. "Give my shirt" and "Not for yours" is all he is yelling as he follows the principal up to the office.

About 3 minutes later, as I am straightening the displaced furniture, one of my autistic kids comes in to do math with me. He is obsessed with staples, and fixates on looking for staples in carpets. He actually gets rewarded when he goes one day without crawling around on the carpet looking for staples. Anyway, he comes in my room and sees the rice grains all over the place. He freaks out. He then spends the next 15 minutes of instructional time picking up rice- grain by grain- and putting then in his pockets. He gets all the rice picked up, also cuts the shit out of his hand digging a staple out of the carpet. I walk him up to the health room so he can clean up his scraped up hand. Tom's mom is in the office, picking up Tom. She was pissed too because she had to leave work to come get him. I say something to her about Tom picking at sticky stuff on his body. She tells me he had pancakes for breakfast, and offers no other explanation.

Welcome to the world of special ed.

Her and Tom start walking out to the parking lot, I walk back to my room, following behind them like 50 yards. Tom turns around and sees me (his mom is still facing forward) and I stick my tongue out at him. (I know, very immature, but geez I am 24, ok?) He belts out the loudest fucking screech, and his mom whacked his ass so fucking hard, picks him up, and carries him, kicking and screaming, to the car. She also is screaming at him that we do not yell at our teachers.

I was so pleased with myself for the tongue stick out.

So, here I sit, Dave Letterman on the TV, Tucker Max on the computer, and a stack of papers full of scribbled names and backward fives and twos.

Thank God tomorrow is a half day. Drinks will begin promptly at noon.

Tards and stickers

I teach special education, kindergarten through 6th grade. I think it is important to note that, just like candy, retards will do anything for stickers.

One of my kids is a highly-functioning autistic. He is very smart, but quite troubled. This was our sticker conversation today, (Brad is his name):

Brad:  "Do I get two stickers today, one for last Wednesday and one for today?"
Me:     "No, Brad, you didn't earn your sticker last Wednesday, you did not make good choices, and talked back to the recess teacher and kicked Fred."
Me:     "Fine. I hate you. I hate you so much. My Dad hates you to. Your a sorry bitch. My dad buys me all the stickers I want, so I don't even need more stickers. You are greedy and an asshole."

At this point I hit the button on the wall, to summon the principal for help.

Brad starts to tear his sticker book apart. Page by page, ripping it to shreds. This lasts for like 30 seconds. At which point he looks at me and says, "Now look what you made me do!! My dad is gonna be so mad at you. You owe me three months of stickers for this."

Needless to say, the tard will not get one fucking sticker from me. He will not get to chose from the Friday treat jar either, that Tweeker.

The First Entry: The Tards may be fucked up, but so are their parents

I am a special education teacher. A lot of the parents don’t give a shit about their kids, especially the parents of special education students. I can say this because only about seven out of twenty parents actually come to their scheduled parent/teacher conference.

It is often a relief that some parents do not come. Coming up with nice things to say about their kids is always tough. Basically, I have to lie to their fucking faces. I feed them with a load of BS. I do this for two reasons. First, I have so many negative things to say about them, that throwing in a positive every now and then alleviates the tension during these conferences. Second, I force myself to say nice things so the parents don’t go home and beat their kid’s ass. Seriously, this happens a lot where I work.

Only one of the parents showed up today to meet with me out of the six I had scheduled. And I am convinced that the only reason this mother showed up was because we have called Child Protective Services on her so many times, that she now fears losing her daughter, who is severely fucked up, and she will be the mothers meal ticket for the rest of her God-Awful existence.
A few things you should know about this mother before I get into the content of the conference.
1)  She works at AM/PM
2)  She has two kids from 2 different fathers, and has never once been married.
3)  She lives with her two kids in a large, low income-housing complex.
4)  Her son is overall a nice kid, who I feel bad for because he has to play “mom” to his younger sister.
5)  Her daughter, who is in my class, was born addicted to crack-cocaine and with fetal alcohol syndrome. She is a cute girl, but can barely function. She knows about 25 words, two of which are “Fooker” and “Bitch”. I work with her on menial things such as drawing lines, signing colors, color recognition, and counting 1-3. She has severe behavior problems. She kicks, hits, screams, bites, etc. Mostly, this is due to her inability to communicate any other way. Still, it’s ridiculous.
Today’s conference with the mother proved to be something that I found worthy of submitting to your site.

It was my intention to recommend to the mother that her daughter be transferred to another school that has a Behavior Disorder program, where her needs would be addressed better. There is little I can do for her when I am instructing a class and she is sitting at the table screaming to me that I am a “fooker”.

I told mom about this transfer and she flipped. She started to cry and plead that her daughter HAD to stay where she was. Why? I really don’t know. Maybe she likes parenting barely functioning kids. Whatever the reason, it has to be serious, as she started giving me a detailed account of her past, leading up to the birth of her daughter. Here it is

Six years ago she decided that she wanted to kill herself. She was an alcoholic, a drug fiend, and was injecting heroine into herself multiple times a day. She lived near a railroad, and had familiarized herself with the times that the train came through each day. She was going to have the train hit her. The night she decides to do it, she gets really loaded and pulls her car up to the train tracks. She parks the car, and proceeds to shoot-up heroine and drink alcohol. The time is nearing for the train to come through, so she starts her car, and prepares to pull onto the tracks. Just then, her car is hit VERY HARD by another car, driven, ironically enough, by a drunk driver. The impact causes her car to fly forward about 50 yards, past the tracks. The car that hit her is now on the tracks. The train comes through, blasts through the car, and kills the drunk driver. She freaks out because she is still alive and knows the police will be on the way. She has drugs on her, and is severely intoxicated. She does the smart thing and drives home.

She decides that the next night she is going to attempt the same sort of death. She does the exact same thing; pulls her car up to the track, gets regally fucked up, and waits for the train. As she is waiting, a bus pulls up in front of her, between her car and the railroad tracks and completely blocks the way to the tracks. Just then, the train comes through.

This completely depresses her, and rightfully so, considering she is such a wasteoid that she can’t even kill herself.

A couple days later, her boyfriend is getting all geared up to go hunting, as it is opening day for hunting season. BING! The light in her fried brain goes off, and she decides she is going to let a hunter shoot her. So she constructs herself a deer suit. Literally gets fur, and builds herself a fucking deer costume. She was describing this to me, and all I could think was Silence of the Fucking Lambs.

She completes her costume and goes out into the woods wearing it. She is out in the woods drinking, doing drugs, when she hears some rustling. She thinks that this is her chance, so she starts making some noise in the bushes, crunching leaves and shit, when she hears “Lady, WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

It was the fucking park ranger! He immediately radios for assistance, and she is literally drug out of there in an "I love myself" jacket.

All of this while she was pregnant with her daughter, who is in my fucking class.

And people wonder why I drink so much.