Poetic justice is sweet

 Poetic justice is sweet:
This story is almost enough turn to make me question my atheist principles.

Tyler's father came into the school today. Tyrell had been out sick for three days, and the end of the third day his father showed up to get his work to make up. I was not pleased with this for several reasons:

1. I do not like. He is not a good person (see above story).

2. He had not called to tell me he was going to do this. Therefore, I am unprepared with a tard make-up work packet.

3. He smelled like a fucking dumpster.

4. Someone had obviously kicked his ass. BOTH of his eyes were black, he had various cuts on his face, open wounds on his arms, bloody knuckles, and his hand was wrapped with medical tape. Did I mention he stank?

Merely looking at him obligated me to question his well-being. I didn't want to, but it really was inevitable. I am hoping that he will tell me that his tard kicked his ass.

Unfortunately this is not the case. The dad tells me that he was at the drive-thru of Taco Bell when he is cut-off by a car full of Mexicans, making him lose his rightful place in the line-up. (Note: he uses the word Mexicans this time only, after this he just says 'cans') Words are exchanged, birds are flipped. The 'can' driver then gets out and pulls him out of his car. He throws him on the ground, and begins kicking him. Then, the other 'cans' get out and help the driver 'can' to whoop his ass.

And, from a first-hand perspective, I can verify that they did, indeed, whoop his ass.

I asked him if he had gone to the hospital. He said "No, I'm okay." He is not okay, but I don't say it. I tell him that I don't have the make-up work prepared, but would send it home with a sibling the next day. He says OK, and turns to leave. I tell him that I hope his son gets better soon, and that his own injuries healed soon, yada yada yada. He then stops, turns to me and says "Yeah, well ya fuck with one bean and ya get the whole burrito."

I guess sometimes everything does come out in the wash.