When Tyler arrives at school today, he is very excited about that snack that he brought. He kept asking me if he could tell me something. I respond with the usual "Does it have to do with the work we are doing right now?" He answers with the usual "No," and we proceed with the days lesson.
Snack time rolls around, the kids who brought their snack get it out of their backpack. I hand out goldfish crackers to the rest. My phone then rings, it is our speech-language pathologist, and it is regarding some important shit. I am on the phone with her for one and a half minutes. I then hang up the phone, and turn back to the tards.
I can't believe what I see: Tyler is snorting Pixie Stick sugar.
He had opened up three little Pixie Sticks (which he knows he is not supposed to bring for snack), had lined up rails of sugar, and was using the paper pixie stick tube to snort the shit with!
I run over to him and snatch the pixie stick from his hand. He says "Hey, what do you think you are doing??" I told him we do not out things in our nose.
He said "I tried to tell you earlier, but you wouldn't let me."
I ask him what he had wanted to tell me. He says, "My dad always snorts stuff, he calls it nose candy. Before he went to jail, he gave me a bunch of my own nose candies, and told me I was allowed to have them at school."
I referred Tyler to our counselor, who will conduct some sort of drug intervention program with him.
Friday, January 31, 2003
Thursday, January 30, 2003
Book Order Day
Book Orders were due today. Only a few of the kids' parents allow them to buy any books, so it is a major deal. One of my girls really wanted some shit from the book order flyer, and her family is very poor. She didn't want books, she wanted stuff like kits to make jewelry, stickers and art sets. She brings her book order in a sealed envelope with her name on it (this is good, as she had followed directions).
Later on that night, I am going through my nightly grading and assessing routine at home, when I come across the girls book order. I open it and inside is her checksheet of what she wants and a check. The check was filled out with pencil in obvious tard writing, and was not signed.
Hmmm.......I wonder who did this?? The check was fucking hilarious!! Poorly scribbled on and ripped at the top. I had to keep the check, just to laugh at it.
So get this: I bought her, with my money, all the shit she had wanted. The items totaled $26.85.
The check had been made out for $13.30. I need to work on her math.
Later on that night, I am going through my nightly grading and assessing routine at home, when I come across the girls book order. I open it and inside is her checksheet of what she wants and a check. The check was filled out with pencil in obvious tard writing, and was not signed.
Hmmm.......I wonder who did this?? The check was fucking hilarious!! Poorly scribbled on and ripped at the top. I had to keep the check, just to laugh at it.
So get this: I bought her, with my money, all the shit she had wanted. The items totaled $26.85.
The check had been made out for $13.30. I need to work on her math.
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
The Tyrell Lap
go to another of Tyrell's basketball games. Why? HIS DAD IS IN JAIL AND HE NEEDED A RIDE!!! (He is serving ninety days for three DUI'S. This is the same dad who got his ass kicked my Mexicans and mooned a basketball game).
Tyler and Tyrell are currently under the care of their dad's girlfriend, who I met when I arrived to pick them up at their low-income housing complex. She appeared to be around 20 years old.
There was nothing but mayhem in the parking lot--kids running around, hitting each other, adults having conversations with each other from 50 yards away, a police car. I was honestly scared to get out of my car. I thought the presence of the police car would ease the fear, but there was no officer around. Someone who lived there could have stolen the police car from all I could gather.
I pull myself together and walk up to their apartment. Out comes Tyler, Tyrell, AND THE GIRLFRIEND! She didn't have a drivers license, and wanted a ride to the game. Whatever, I didn't care that she would be in my car, except that she reeked of wet cigarette smoke.
Once we arrive at the game, the girlfriend disappears, and is not seen again. Tyler and I watch the game together, people stare at me, probably thinking I was the dad's girlfriend. Things are going well, Tyrell is playing a great game, and I bought Tyler soda pop and candy. Everything was actually very normal, until the third quarter, when Tyrell's SBD kicks in.
The ref makes a call against him, and the damn breaks. Tyrell yells out "You're a stupid fucker!" He is immediately ejected. Not just ejected but aactually thrown out of the gym. The ref orders him to the locker room.
He is SO angry that he ignores the ref and removes his jersey and lays it flat in the center of the court. Instead of heading to the locker room, he jogs a full lap around the boundary line of the court. While he is doing this he is throwing his arms up and down screaming "RRaaaahhh" with occasional obscenities. He has the scariest look on his face that I have ever seen. Upon completion of the lap he exits the building. He doesn't even get his stuff from the locker room. His jersey was still in the middle of the court. Nobody in the entire gym had any idea how to react.
I calmly surpress my laughter and react in my usual manner: I just leave, taking Tyler with me, of course.
Tyrell is outside next to my car waiting. I ask him if he has seen the girlfriend. He hadn't, so we just leave.
On the way home I drive through Dairy Queen and buy them both a Blizzard. Tyrell deserved it, as the "Tyrell Lap" was possibly the funniest thing I have ever seen.
We pull into the parking lot of their complex. Still, at 8:30 p.m., there are kids running all over the place. The police car is still there. I walk them up to the door, not knowing what to do with them. Luckily, the girlfriend is there--WITH SOME FUCKING GUY!!!!! She tells me that she had gotten a ride back with a friend. Her hair looked like sex.
Sadly, I said goodbye to the boys. I was truly worried about the girlfriends ability to adequately care for them.
I called Child Protective Services the next day. My third call to them in the past month. The staff there knows me by name.
Tyler and Tyrell are currently under the care of their dad's girlfriend, who I met when I arrived to pick them up at their low-income housing complex. She appeared to be around 20 years old.
There was nothing but mayhem in the parking lot--kids running around, hitting each other, adults having conversations with each other from 50 yards away, a police car. I was honestly scared to get out of my car. I thought the presence of the police car would ease the fear, but there was no officer around. Someone who lived there could have stolen the police car from all I could gather.
I pull myself together and walk up to their apartment. Out comes Tyler, Tyrell, AND THE GIRLFRIEND! She didn't have a drivers license, and wanted a ride to the game. Whatever, I didn't care that she would be in my car, except that she reeked of wet cigarette smoke.
Once we arrive at the game, the girlfriend disappears, and is not seen again. Tyler and I watch the game together, people stare at me, probably thinking I was the dad's girlfriend. Things are going well, Tyrell is playing a great game, and I bought Tyler soda pop and candy. Everything was actually very normal, until the third quarter, when Tyrell's SBD kicks in.
The ref makes a call against him, and the damn breaks. Tyrell yells out "You're a stupid fucker!" He is immediately ejected. Not just ejected but aactually thrown out of the gym. The ref orders him to the locker room.
He is SO angry that he ignores the ref and removes his jersey and lays it flat in the center of the court. Instead of heading to the locker room, he jogs a full lap around the boundary line of the court. While he is doing this he is throwing his arms up and down screaming "RRaaaahhh" with occasional obscenities. He has the scariest look on his face that I have ever seen. Upon completion of the lap he exits the building. He doesn't even get his stuff from the locker room. His jersey was still in the middle of the court. Nobody in the entire gym had any idea how to react.
I calmly surpress my laughter and react in my usual manner: I just leave, taking Tyler with me, of course.
Tyrell is outside next to my car waiting. I ask him if he has seen the girlfriend. He hadn't, so we just leave.
On the way home I drive through Dairy Queen and buy them both a Blizzard. Tyrell deserved it, as the "Tyrell Lap" was possibly the funniest thing I have ever seen.
We pull into the parking lot of their complex. Still, at 8:30 p.m., there are kids running all over the place. The police car is still there. I walk them up to the door, not knowing what to do with them. Luckily, the girlfriend is there--WITH SOME FUCKING GUY!!!!! She tells me that she had gotten a ride back with a friend. Her hair looked like sex.
Sadly, I said goodbye to the boys. I was truly worried about the girlfriends ability to adequately care for them.
I called Child Protective Services the next day. My third call to them in the past month. The staff there knows me by name.
Monday, January 27, 2003
Lindsay's OCD causes problems
Lindsay is a very sweet girl. She has OCD and is always very anxious. Unfortunately, I am forced to take away many of her recesses because she often refuses to do her work during class time.
She has recently developed a new way of dealing with her anger towards me: she chews away at her fingernails. She bites them down to little stubs, and will not stop until they bleed profusely. This only has started recently, but has escalated quickly in severity.
Her hand are always bloody. If she is irritated at all, she gnaws at her fingers like they are pork spareribs. It is disgusting. Her mom will not discuss this with me. Again, Child Protective Services (CPS) has heard from me.
I have programmed CPS into my phone's speed dial. Seeing as how I am calling them so much, it just seemed practical.
She has recently developed a new way of dealing with her anger towards me: she chews away at her fingernails. She bites them down to little stubs, and will not stop until they bleed profusely. This only has started recently, but has escalated quickly in severity.
Her hand are always bloody. If she is irritated at all, she gnaws at her fingers like they are pork spareribs. It is disgusting. Her mom will not discuss this with me. Again, Child Protective Services (CPS) has heard from me.
I have programmed CPS into my phone's speed dial. Seeing as how I am calling them so much, it just seemed practical.
Saturday, January 25, 2003
Tards go to play, all hell breaks loose
A few weeks ago I received an invitation from the local Children's Theater inviting my class and me to a performance of Hansel and Gretel.
For taking tards out in public, there is almost nothing worse than a play. Whenever there is a calm moment in my class, I say this: "If I wanted to be busy I'd go see a play." But the kids were excited, so I decided to go ahead and get my yearly play punishment out of the way.
I send home permission slips two weeks prior to the play date. [FYI: Normal classroom teachers send home permission slips ONE week prior. Plus I realize that acquiring the entire $5.50 to cover the cost of the trip may require some serious re-budgeting.] The day prior to the play I only have 3 slips turned in.
Being a good little Riti Sped, I call the homes of the 10+ kids that had not turned theirs in. Amongst the litany of unbelievable conversations I have with whoever answers on the other line, my favorite is this:
An answering machine that says "You have reached the Mercer family. We are unable to come to the phone at this time because Lola is shopping, Mark is watching football, Antoni is nowhere to be found and Tom is picking his nose."
The above is a true, unabridged greeting on the voicemail of one of my tard families. Normally I would have thought this was lame, but that my tard Tom does constantly pick his nose, so this is funny.
Surprisingly, all but 2 of my tards get their permission slips on the morning of the trip. The other two will have to spend the day in the preschool tard class. Nice.
The bus ride there was actually quite calm. I think that adjusting to the size of a regular school bus was a bit much for them. I can only imagine the thought processing in their little heads, something like, "Wow. A long bus and seats without restraint equipment--what is this strange new world??"
Our bus arrives at the auditorium, and there are tons of kids all over the place. At least a couple thousand. If one of my tards gets loose, the shit will hit the fan. This worries me, so I assign each tard a buddy to hold hands with and to be "in charge of." This proves to be a good idea, as they argue with each other over who is actually in charge, squeeze the crap out of each others hands, and kick at each other.
The best part are the other kids. Imagine being a normal kid, say sixth grade or so, and seeing a line-up of tards holding hands, stomping through the crowds. The kids were snickering, joking, I heard "look at that" plenty of times. Tons of kids are staring, but my tards are LOVING IT!! They are waving and smiling, still holding hands, basking in the attention.
Since my group is disabled, I am able to reap the rewards of "special needs check in." We are all escorted in, and given the front row of seats to the left of the stage, next to the crying room, coincidentally.
All of the ruckus of the crowds coming in, the noise, etc. causes Lindsay to cry. She wants to sit on my lap. I let her. Soon after this, she has to go to the bathroom, and one of my aides takes her. Things seem to be going smoothly, so I pull out The Tucker Max Saga Continues...E-mail #20 from my purse and begin to read it.
I am about one minute into it, laughing hysterically, when I realize that there are a bunch of kids behind me, peering over my shoulder. I put the papers back in the purse, and hear one kid tell another one that the paper I had said "vagina." Immediately they begin to laugh. I chuckle to myself, as it is kind of funny.
While waiting for the production to begin, nothing that great happens, although Tyler does say "Let's get this bitch on the road."
In preparation for the story of Hansel and Gretel, I read the story to the kids nine times prior to the play. NINE TIMES. We also talked about how it is only a story, and that witches who eat kids are not real, parents don't really lose their kids in the woods, etc.
I am confident that nine times had been enough, and that the kids will understand the play. I was wrong. The witch scares all of the little kids.
Emmy and Brian are crying and screaming. Now I realize the strategic seating arrangement. I take them both to the crying room. But they can still hear the play through speakers in the crying room. So we sing songs and look away from the stage.
Then they fight over who will sit on my lap. Then, and this fucking kills me, they want to hear the story if Hansel and Gretel. I had not of course brought the book with me. But I did have Email #20. I quickly stop this line of thought.
We remain in the crying room for the entire duration of the play. The rest of the tards did such a good job of watching and tying in the ideas from the book to the play. I was so proud of them!! I almost cried on the bus when they told me how much they loved it.
We got back to school, and, aside from Tyler repeatedly telling everyone that he "Would of schooled that witch bitch," all goes well. I give them all granola dipp bars. They fight over who gets rocky road and who gets peanut butter.
For taking tards out in public, there is almost nothing worse than a play. Whenever there is a calm moment in my class, I say this: "If I wanted to be busy I'd go see a play." But the kids were excited, so I decided to go ahead and get my yearly play punishment out of the way.
I send home permission slips two weeks prior to the play date. [FYI: Normal classroom teachers send home permission slips ONE week prior. Plus I realize that acquiring the entire $5.50 to cover the cost of the trip may require some serious re-budgeting.] The day prior to the play I only have 3 slips turned in.
Being a good little Riti Sped, I call the homes of the 10+ kids that had not turned theirs in. Amongst the litany of unbelievable conversations I have with whoever answers on the other line, my favorite is this:
An answering machine that says "You have reached the Mercer family. We are unable to come to the phone at this time because Lola is shopping, Mark is watching football, Antoni is nowhere to be found and Tom is picking his nose."
The above is a true, unabridged greeting on the voicemail of one of my tard families. Normally I would have thought this was lame, but that my tard Tom does constantly pick his nose, so this is funny.
Surprisingly, all but 2 of my tards get their permission slips on the morning of the trip. The other two will have to spend the day in the preschool tard class. Nice.
The bus ride there was actually quite calm. I think that adjusting to the size of a regular school bus was a bit much for them. I can only imagine the thought processing in their little heads, something like, "Wow. A long bus and seats without restraint equipment--what is this strange new world??"
Our bus arrives at the auditorium, and there are tons of kids all over the place. At least a couple thousand. If one of my tards gets loose, the shit will hit the fan. This worries me, so I assign each tard a buddy to hold hands with and to be "in charge of." This proves to be a good idea, as they argue with each other over who is actually in charge, squeeze the crap out of each others hands, and kick at each other.
The best part are the other kids. Imagine being a normal kid, say sixth grade or so, and seeing a line-up of tards holding hands, stomping through the crowds. The kids were snickering, joking, I heard "look at that" plenty of times. Tons of kids are staring, but my tards are LOVING IT!! They are waving and smiling, still holding hands, basking in the attention.
Since my group is disabled, I am able to reap the rewards of "special needs check in." We are all escorted in, and given the front row of seats to the left of the stage, next to the crying room, coincidentally.
All of the ruckus of the crowds coming in, the noise, etc. causes Lindsay to cry. She wants to sit on my lap. I let her. Soon after this, she has to go to the bathroom, and one of my aides takes her. Things seem to be going smoothly, so I pull out The Tucker Max Saga Continues...E-mail #20 from my purse and begin to read it.
I am about one minute into it, laughing hysterically, when I realize that there are a bunch of kids behind me, peering over my shoulder. I put the papers back in the purse, and hear one kid tell another one that the paper I had said "vagina." Immediately they begin to laugh. I chuckle to myself, as it is kind of funny.
While waiting for the production to begin, nothing that great happens, although Tyler does say "Let's get this bitch on the road."
In preparation for the story of Hansel and Gretel, I read the story to the kids nine times prior to the play. NINE TIMES. We also talked about how it is only a story, and that witches who eat kids are not real, parents don't really lose their kids in the woods, etc.
I am confident that nine times had been enough, and that the kids will understand the play. I was wrong. The witch scares all of the little kids.
Emmy and Brian are crying and screaming. Now I realize the strategic seating arrangement. I take them both to the crying room. But they can still hear the play through speakers in the crying room. So we sing songs and look away from the stage.
Then they fight over who will sit on my lap. Then, and this fucking kills me, they want to hear the story if Hansel and Gretel. I had not of course brought the book with me. But I did have Email #20. I quickly stop this line of thought.
We remain in the crying room for the entire duration of the play. The rest of the tards did such a good job of watching and tying in the ideas from the book to the play. I was so proud of them!! I almost cried on the bus when they told me how much they loved it.
We got back to school, and, aside from Tyler repeatedly telling everyone that he "Would of schooled that witch bitch," all goes well. I give them all granola dipp bars. They fight over who gets rocky road and who gets peanut butter.
Thursday, January 23, 2003
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
Tyler's father is the retarded one
Remember Tyler's father, the one who mooned a junior high basketball game? He might be the worst parent ever. His son Tyler is a tard, and thus very impressionable, but his father is impressing very bad things on him. Two examples:
Tyler was sent home Thursday around noon for this: we were doing a unit on Martin Luther King Jr. He announces to the whole class that his Dad said "What is black and yellow and makes you laugh?" "A bus full of black people rolling over a cliff."
On MLK Jr. Day, my school has the day off, but I ran up to the school to get some papers I need to correct. There were some kids riding their bikes around the parking lot, and one of them is Tyler. I asked him if he was enjoying his day off. This is exactly what he said:
"My dad said that we don't celebrate that troublemakers birthday."
It is almost enough to make my jaded soul sad.
Tyler was sent home Thursday around noon for this: we were doing a unit on Martin Luther King Jr. He announces to the whole class that his Dad said "What is black and yellow and makes you laugh?" "A bus full of black people rolling over a cliff."
On MLK Jr. Day, my school has the day off, but I ran up to the school to get some papers I need to correct. There were some kids riding their bikes around the parking lot, and one of them is Tyler. I asked him if he was enjoying his day off. This is exactly what he said:
"My dad said that we don't celebrate that troublemakers birthday."
It is almost enough to make my jaded soul sad.
More Tyrell stories
Tyrell was in my class last year. Dumb he was, but not really retarded. He did have major behavior problems though. He was nothing but trouble. Some of the Tyrell highlights from last year:
- One morning he is late to school, I ask him why, he responds that "My dad couldn't find his drugs."
- He brought marijuana to school.
- He brought a steak knife wrapped in a towel to school. He took it out on the playground to threaten a kid who had been making fun of him. Told the kid that "If you mess with me you'll have to mess with this. And I'll be rapping at your eulogy baby."
- Made these bombs and brought them to school. He made them out of his dad's gun powder. The kid is crazy, the next Una-bomber. He used household items (Carmex container, mechanical pencil lead container) to assemble bombs. He even put heavy duty wicks on them. I took them home, ya know, in case I ever need to blow anything up.
- One morning he is late to school, I ask him why, he responds that "My dad couldn't find his drugs."
- He brought marijuana to school.
- He brought a steak knife wrapped in a towel to school. He took it out on the playground to threaten a kid who had been making fun of him. Told the kid that "If you mess with me you'll have to mess with this. And I'll be rapping at your eulogy baby."
- Made these bombs and brought them to school. He made them out of his dad's gun powder. The kid is crazy, the next Una-bomber. He used household items (Carmex container, mechanical pencil lead container) to assemble bombs. He even put heavy duty wicks on them. I took them home, ya know, in case I ever need to blow anything up.
Tuesday, January 21, 2003
Sub is not welcomed
As is life, I was so sick on Sunday night that I had to call a sub for the following day. My sub plans included writing words on the kids small chalkboards. Because I was gone, and the kids can't adjust to this, they all were bad.
The sub left the worst feedback I had ever seen. She also asked that I not call on her again. This is what Tom (rice box boy, and above story) wrote on his chalkboard. She was so angry that she left it for me to see.
I was proud of him, it was all spelled correctly and the "I" was capitalized. If he had included a period at the end, I might have let him chose from the prize box.
The sub left the worst feedback I had ever seen. She also asked that I not call on her again. This is what Tom (rice box boy, and above story) wrote on his chalkboard. She was so angry that she left it for me to see.
I was proud of him, it was all spelled correctly and the "I" was capitalized. If he had included a period at the end, I might have let him chose from the prize box.
Monday, January 20, 2003
Tom gets upset
Tim refuses to accept the fact that we only use a capital letter at the beginning of our name. He wants to just throw in random capital letters. I will not allow this.
One day he kept making capital letters and arguing with me about it, so I took away his writing journal and his pencil. Needless to say, he got violently angry. He threw shit all over the place while calling me a "crack head bitch."
One day he kept making capital letters and arguing with me about it, so I took away his writing journal and his pencil. Needless to say, he got violently angry. He threw shit all over the place while calling me a "crack head bitch."
Friday, January 17, 2003
Guest Contributor: What it's like in Riti's clas
Ed. Note: This is written by a guest contributor, who is friends with Riti and once visited her classroom:
I met Riti Sped during a spring break a few years ago. She let me come to her class one time to check out the kids.
They were all terrible. Some loud, some mute, some shat in pants, some pissed, some spit, swore, some wrote things like "Fuck" on the tables, some scribbled over anything. This list of their transgressions is nearly endless. Despite all the entertaining behavior, the funniest thing was how Riti dealt with the tards. I will never forget this incident:
Riti was quizzing the tards on their ABC's with flashcards. She is going from tard to tard, and as she held up a card with a letter on it, they would say what letter it was. She gets to one girl, and the letter is a "T." Riti didn't know it, but the card was upside down.
The tard looked at it and said "What the fuck is that?" This alone makes me explode. But then Riti says "Oh, I am sorry [name of kid] I don't think I said it is time to use bad words." The girl then said "That's a weird fucking letter," to which Riti said something like, "Excuse me [name of girl] if you would like to use bad words, we can do this during our recess time. The rest of us would like to finish up here," and left it like that.
Later on I asked her why she didn't send the girl out. She said something like, "If I send out every kid that swore I would have no kids here to teach."
Though this was funny, the capstone to the trip was this:
I laughed at this one huge fat kid because he all the sudden started smelling like shit. He had literally shit his pants, right there in the classroom. Riti hits the intercom button.
The response is some lady who says "Yes, office?"
Riti says this only "We have a code brown."
The lady says "I will send down the principal and the janitor."
I no longer was able to contain my laughter. THEY HAD A SYSTEM SET UP TO DEAL WITH THE SHITTY FAT KID! I started to laugh uncontrollably loud.
At this, the fat retard becomes mad and charges me, knocks me into a bookcase and the bookcase falls over and all the books fall out, and he lands on top of me, in the middle of all these books all over the floor. He was so huge that the impact of him landing on me knocks the breath out of me and breaks my hand. NO SHIT--BROKE MY FUCKING HAND!
Now I am not a small man, nor a wimp, and at 6'4, 200 lbs, I figured I was safe around the tards. But the kid was so big that he broke my hand and scratched up my neck and side.
Mentally picture this image: bookshelf down, little tard books scattered everywhere, me in the middle of them with a fat tard on top of me, the principal and janitor are at the door, AND RITI CONTINUES TEACHING! AS IF NOTHING AT ALL HAD HAPPENED!!
Finally I throw the tard off of me, and I see the diarrhea all over the ass of his huge, tent-size sweatpants. That image, combined with the intense shit smell, caused me to vomit on the floor.
Later, I am sitting in a tiny little chair, made for someone 1/4 my size, with my hand throbbing and the taste of vomit in my mouth. All Riti does is look at me and say, "I knew you couldn't handle this. Real good AJ, real good," and then continues to teach. Her and all of the kids acted as if nothing had happened, with me sitting in my midget chair, nursing my broken hand, faintly smelling of tard crap, and feeling like the biggest tard in the room.
My roommates had a great 6 weeks of making fun of me until the cast came off. They all signed it with stupid shit, like, "Beware of Fat Tards."
Riti signed it "Real good, AJ".
And if I recall correctly, Riti has a picture of me with the cast on later that evening. She had no pity for me at all.
I met Riti Sped during a spring break a few years ago. She let me come to her class one time to check out the kids.
They were all terrible. Some loud, some mute, some shat in pants, some pissed, some spit, swore, some wrote things like "Fuck" on the tables, some scribbled over anything. This list of their transgressions is nearly endless. Despite all the entertaining behavior, the funniest thing was how Riti dealt with the tards. I will never forget this incident:
Riti was quizzing the tards on their ABC's with flashcards. She is going from tard to tard, and as she held up a card with a letter on it, they would say what letter it was. She gets to one girl, and the letter is a "T." Riti didn't know it, but the card was upside down.
The tard looked at it and said "What the fuck is that?" This alone makes me explode. But then Riti says "Oh, I am sorry [name of kid] I don't think I said it is time to use bad words." The girl then said "That's a weird fucking letter," to which Riti said something like, "Excuse me [name of girl] if you would like to use bad words, we can do this during our recess time. The rest of us would like to finish up here," and left it like that.
Later on I asked her why she didn't send the girl out. She said something like, "If I send out every kid that swore I would have no kids here to teach."
Though this was funny, the capstone to the trip was this:
I laughed at this one huge fat kid because he all the sudden started smelling like shit. He had literally shit his pants, right there in the classroom. Riti hits the intercom button.
The response is some lady who says "Yes, office?"
Riti says this only "We have a code brown."
The lady says "I will send down the principal and the janitor."
I no longer was able to contain my laughter. THEY HAD A SYSTEM SET UP TO DEAL WITH THE SHITTY FAT KID! I started to laugh uncontrollably loud.
At this, the fat retard becomes mad and charges me, knocks me into a bookcase and the bookcase falls over and all the books fall out, and he lands on top of me, in the middle of all these books all over the floor. He was so huge that the impact of him landing on me knocks the breath out of me and breaks my hand. NO SHIT--BROKE MY FUCKING HAND!
Now I am not a small man, nor a wimp, and at 6'4, 200 lbs, I figured I was safe around the tards. But the kid was so big that he broke my hand and scratched up my neck and side.
Mentally picture this image: bookshelf down, little tard books scattered everywhere, me in the middle of them with a fat tard on top of me, the principal and janitor are at the door, AND RITI CONTINUES TEACHING! AS IF NOTHING AT ALL HAD HAPPENED!!
Finally I throw the tard off of me, and I see the diarrhea all over the ass of his huge, tent-size sweatpants. That image, combined with the intense shit smell, caused me to vomit on the floor.
Later, I am sitting in a tiny little chair, made for someone 1/4 my size, with my hand throbbing and the taste of vomit in my mouth. All Riti does is look at me and say, "I knew you couldn't handle this. Real good AJ, real good," and then continues to teach. Her and all of the kids acted as if nothing had happened, with me sitting in my midget chair, nursing my broken hand, faintly smelling of tard crap, and feeling like the biggest tard in the room.
My roommates had a great 6 weeks of making fun of me until the cast came off. They all signed it with stupid shit, like, "Beware of Fat Tards."
Riti signed it "Real good, AJ".
And if I recall correctly, Riti has a picture of me with the cast on later that evening. She had no pity for me at all.
Thursday, January 16, 2003
Tard parents makes ass out of himself, literally
I go to a basketball game at the junior high. I do this because a current student of mine, Mark, has a brother, Dave, playing. He is a former student of mine. I agree to go to the game, but I take a friend with me.
When I get there I see Mark, who introduces me to his father. His father appears to be my age, and will not let go of my hand when I shake it. He is also wearing a jersey. I hate this shit. I automatically label him as poor white trash. His behavior this night will prove this.
The game starts, and Dave is playing is playing well. He is a good athlete. Almost every call that the ref makes against Dave's team receives a loud "LOOOSER" comment from the dad. Dave fouls someone and the dad disagrees. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WATCHING, REF? OPEN YOUR EYES." Other parents are staring. My friend and I are about to die from trying to hold in our laughter.
A penalty is later called against one of Dave's teammates. "THAT IS BULLSHIT," the dad calls out. At this point he is approached by the coach about his behavior, and asked to calm down and stop making these remarks.
He is basically calm for the rest of the game, until the last 2 minutes, when Dave fouls out. At this, the dad stands up, yells "KISS THIS REF" and moons the entire court and everyone on the bleachers. He is then ejected from the game. I can not contain myself. Mark is crying because he doesn't want to leave the court. The gym is virtually chaotic with the commotion.
The game over, everyone start filing out of the gym into the parking lot, parents, kids, teachers, coaches, etc. Dave's dad is in the parking lot yelling at Dave for his on court performance. Everyone is staring.
The family gets into their mini-van, and all of them are fighting. They pull out of the parking lot, when the dad slams on the brakes, screeching the tires and to bring the van to an abrupt stop. The door flies open and out tumble Dave and Mark. The dad pulls off, not even bothering to close the van door, leaving the brothers to walk home. Mark and Dave are beating the shit out of each other on the sidewalk as we all watch. At least 50 parents/kids are watching this. They are swearing at each other and fighting ruthlessly.
My friend and I get in my car and begin to drive out of the parking lot. We get about a quarter mile down the road from the school when we pass Mark and Dave, still kicking the shit out of each other as they walk home.
As we drove by I honked like ten times and my friend gives a loud "Yeeee-haaaaaaah".
When I get there I see Mark, who introduces me to his father. His father appears to be my age, and will not let go of my hand when I shake it. He is also wearing a jersey. I hate this shit. I automatically label him as poor white trash. His behavior this night will prove this.
The game starts, and Dave is playing is playing well. He is a good athlete. Almost every call that the ref makes against Dave's team receives a loud "LOOOSER" comment from the dad. Dave fouls someone and the dad disagrees. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WATCHING, REF? OPEN YOUR EYES." Other parents are staring. My friend and I are about to die from trying to hold in our laughter.
A penalty is later called against one of Dave's teammates. "THAT IS BULLSHIT," the dad calls out. At this point he is approached by the coach about his behavior, and asked to calm down and stop making these remarks.
He is basically calm for the rest of the game, until the last 2 minutes, when Dave fouls out. At this, the dad stands up, yells "KISS THIS REF" and moons the entire court and everyone on the bleachers. He is then ejected from the game. I can not contain myself. Mark is crying because he doesn't want to leave the court. The gym is virtually chaotic with the commotion.
The game over, everyone start filing out of the gym into the parking lot, parents, kids, teachers, coaches, etc. Dave's dad is in the parking lot yelling at Dave for his on court performance. Everyone is staring.
The family gets into their mini-van, and all of them are fighting. They pull out of the parking lot, when the dad slams on the brakes, screeching the tires and to bring the van to an abrupt stop. The door flies open and out tumble Dave and Mark. The dad pulls off, not even bothering to close the van door, leaving the brothers to walk home. Mark and Dave are beating the shit out of each other on the sidewalk as we all watch. At least 50 parents/kids are watching this. They are swearing at each other and fighting ruthlessly.
My friend and I get in my car and begin to drive out of the parking lot. We get about a quarter mile down the road from the school when we pass Mark and Dave, still kicking the shit out of each other as they walk home.
As we drove by I honked like ten times and my friend gives a loud "Yeeee-haaaaaaah".
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
New kid has interesting background
New kid Brian tells me, while standing in line waiting for computer lab that:
"My grandpa was in jail cuz he busted up a lot of computers."
No shit?? I am instantly drawn in to the conversation. I allow him to continue:
"He's dead now. Because he died at the doctors office. He went up there now (he points up)"
Later that night, there was a family night at school. My friend Jason who eats lunch with Jamel on Wednesdays is there with me. I had told him about what Brian had said to me earlier, but of course I think it would be best if Brian told him.
I spot Brian without his parents. I go up to him and say "Hi Brian, is your grandpa here?" He then rambles on about his grandpa being dead, going to jail for busting computers, died at the doctors office, etc. He then throws this one in:
"He was in jail a long time ago because he killed a policeman."
HOLY SHIT!!! This is better then I could of ever expected. And my friend is there to witness it!!!!!
Brian's dad rushes over and says "Brian, what tales are you telling?" He seemed nervous and hurried. He then said "Come over here with me, I have someone I want you to meet," and then wisks Brian away.
"My grandpa was in jail cuz he busted up a lot of computers."
No shit?? I am instantly drawn in to the conversation. I allow him to continue:
"He's dead now. Because he died at the doctors office. He went up there now (he points up)"
Later that night, there was a family night at school. My friend Jason who eats lunch with Jamel on Wednesdays is there with me. I had told him about what Brian had said to me earlier, but of course I think it would be best if Brian told him.
I spot Brian without his parents. I go up to him and say "Hi Brian, is your grandpa here?" He then rambles on about his grandpa being dead, going to jail for busting computers, died at the doctors office, etc. He then throws this one in:
"He was in jail a long time ago because he killed a policeman."
HOLY SHIT!!! This is better then I could of ever expected. And my friend is there to witness it!!!!!
Brian's dad rushes over and says "Brian, what tales are you telling?" He seemed nervous and hurried. He then said "Come over here with me, I have someone I want you to meet," and then wisks Brian away.
Tuesday, January 14, 2003
Augusta won't touch mail either
Augusta is in the office, waiting to go home because he was touched. It happened during PE, when they were having relay races and he was shoved. [For a complete understanding of Augusta's problem, see 12/10: Meet Augusta, but don't touch him] I call up to the office from my classroom and ask them to assign Augusta some task to work on while he waits.
So they have Augusta put the mail away in the teachers boxes. And we all know how many people touch mail. He was freaking out. Scared even.
The secretary told me that she left him in the mailroom to put away a huge bin of mail. She checked on him 5 minutes later. He was moving at the pace of a one-hundred year old woman, cautiously picking up each letter with either one finger from each hand or with his sweatshirt pulled over his hand. He treated each piece of mail like he was handling weapons grade plutonium.
She went in and asked him why he wasn't moving along. He said that he didn't really like to put away mail. She offered him some rubber gloves. He accepted, and the bin of mail was put away in ten minutes.
So they have Augusta put the mail away in the teachers boxes. And we all know how many people touch mail. He was freaking out. Scared even.
The secretary told me that she left him in the mailroom to put away a huge bin of mail. She checked on him 5 minutes later. He was moving at the pace of a one-hundred year old woman, cautiously picking up each letter with either one finger from each hand or with his sweatshirt pulled over his hand. He treated each piece of mail like he was handling weapons grade plutonium.
She went in and asked him why he wasn't moving along. He said that he didn't really like to put away mail. She offered him some rubber gloves. He accepted, and the bin of mail was put away in ten minutes.
Monday, January 13, 2003
Tards contribute snacks
Augusta comes to school today with snacks that he was donating to the class. A regular size ziploc sandwich bag stuffed so full of nuts that it would barely close. It was weird. I put them aside, and later when the kids are at music I look more carefully at the nuts. There are 2 kinds of nuts in the bag. Hazelnuts and Brazil nuts. Both of which are nasty. They were also salted.
I was puzzled, so I asked Augusta about the odd donation. He told me that his family has a huge 5 pound can of mixed nuts at home, and that they liked all of the nuts except these two kinds. Super. I am very excited about feeding the rejected nuts from Augusta's family to my class.
Other donations: - Lindsay: Scooby-Doo fruit snacks
- Brad: peanut butter Rice Krispy treats
- Tom: cheese mini-Ritz bits
I know what I will be giving Augusta for his snack for a long, long time.
I was puzzled, so I asked Augusta about the odd donation. He told me that his family has a huge 5 pound can of mixed nuts at home, and that they liked all of the nuts except these two kinds. Super. I am very excited about feeding the rejected nuts from Augusta's family to my class.
Other donations: - Lindsay: Scooby-Doo fruit snacks
- Brad: peanut butter Rice Krispy treats
- Tom: cheese mini-Ritz bits
Saturday, January 11, 2003
Riti teaches the tards about sex
have to teach them about sex, in a series called "Family Life." I can hardly stand it. Primarily, because I still laugh at words like "uterus" and "fallopian tubes." Especially if there are other people laughing hysterically, it is hard for me to contain myself. I was trying so hard not to laugh throughout the entire 25 minute duration of "Family Life".
I had to show a diagram of the female reproductive system, point out the parts, and describe their functions. Also, I have both males and females in my group, unlike the other classes, where they split the classes into male/female groups
I started the unit on Friday. I am also obligated, by state law, to take questions from the tards and answer them honestly.
The very first (and only) question I received was this, from AUGUSTA, "What does sex feel like?"
Fucking-A. I am now in the worst situation possible. How do I answer this to a group of tards? I definitely do not want to imply that I have ever had sex. I think about it for a bit, and finally say "Well, I guess it feels good, otherwise people wouldn't do it." They all seemed to accept this answer. Thank God that Family Life time was over before someone asked me another question.
I am dreading Monday. I am convinced that they will verbally attack me, and force me to answer questions about my sex life. Plus I still can't help but laugh during the entire lesson.
Somebody shoot me, please.
I had to show a diagram of the female reproductive system, point out the parts, and describe their functions. Also, I have both males and females in my group, unlike the other classes, where they split the classes into male/female groups
I started the unit on Friday. I am also obligated, by state law, to take questions from the tards and answer them honestly.
The very first (and only) question I received was this, from AUGUSTA, "What does sex feel like?"
Fucking-A. I am now in the worst situation possible. How do I answer this to a group of tards? I definitely do not want to imply that I have ever had sex. I think about it for a bit, and finally say "Well, I guess it feels good, otherwise people wouldn't do it." They all seemed to accept this answer. Thank God that Family Life time was over before someone asked me another question.
I am dreading Monday. I am convinced that they will verbally attack me, and force me to answer questions about my sex life. Plus I still can't help but laugh during the entire lesson.
Somebody shoot me, please.
Friday, January 10, 2003
Retardism runs in Family
Trevor is in third grade. He was born with fetal alcohol syndrome and as a result if very slow. He is also very bad at reading. He guesses at words, and doesn't even know his sounds. The most frustrating part is that he doesn't care. It doesn't seem to bother him that, in his reading group are 3 kindergarteners, retarded ones no les, and him.
Last year I had Trevor's brother in my class. He has since moved on to high school. He was scary. I guarantee he will be on America's Most Wanted in like 10 years. Him and I fought just about every day last year because he always wore bandanas to school, which is against school rules. He would always try to compromise with me regarding the bandana ("if I finish all my typing, can I wear it out to recess", etc.)
The most annoying thing he would do was to constantly repeat song lyrics. At least fifteen times a day he would, out of nowhere, bust out with "Jiggah-Jiggah Slim Shady". I wanted to beat him. Near the end of last year he had changed it to "Notorious B-I-G- baby baby". This wasn't nearly as bad as "Jiggah-Jiggah Slim Shady" but was still annoying.
Trevor has replicated this annoying habit. It is as if his brother and him concocted a New Years resolution to piss me off. Trevor was sent to the principal's office, then eventually home because he could not stop saying "Forty degrees when I tell that bitch please." This was his answer to anything and everything. During reading group I asked him to read one sentence from the book. The fucker puts his finger on the sentence, and says, while pretending to be reading, "Forty degrees when I tell that bitch please."
Luckily, the kindergarteners are too young and retarded to comprehend this. Trevor is then sent to the principal's office after doing the same thing three more times.
Today Trevor returns, and his new phrase is "Young and dangerous, ain't nobody can hang with us." This one isn't as bad, but it pisses me off because he is saying ain't. I don't want my kids to hear this, because they will be prone to repeating it.
After several warnings, the behavior continues, so he goes back to the office. The principal asks him if he needs to call his mom to come get him.
Trevor's response (I kid you not), "Nigga Please."
He went home shortly after that.
Last year I had Trevor's brother in my class. He has since moved on to high school. He was scary. I guarantee he will be on America's Most Wanted in like 10 years. Him and I fought just about every day last year because he always wore bandanas to school, which is against school rules. He would always try to compromise with me regarding the bandana ("if I finish all my typing, can I wear it out to recess", etc.)
The most annoying thing he would do was to constantly repeat song lyrics. At least fifteen times a day he would, out of nowhere, bust out with "Jiggah-Jiggah Slim Shady". I wanted to beat him. Near the end of last year he had changed it to "Notorious B-I-G- baby baby". This wasn't nearly as bad as "Jiggah-Jiggah Slim Shady" but was still annoying.
Trevor has replicated this annoying habit. It is as if his brother and him concocted a New Years resolution to piss me off. Trevor was sent to the principal's office, then eventually home because he could not stop saying "Forty degrees when I tell that bitch please." This was his answer to anything and everything. During reading group I asked him to read one sentence from the book. The fucker puts his finger on the sentence, and says, while pretending to be reading, "Forty degrees when I tell that bitch please."
Luckily, the kindergarteners are too young and retarded to comprehend this. Trevor is then sent to the principal's office after doing the same thing three more times.
Today Trevor returns, and his new phrase is "Young and dangerous, ain't nobody can hang with us." This one isn't as bad, but it pisses me off because he is saying ain't. I don't want my kids to hear this, because they will be prone to repeating it.
After several warnings, the behavior continues, so he goes back to the office. The principal asks him if he needs to call his mom to come get him.
Trevor's response (I kid you not), "Nigga Please."
He went home shortly after that.
Lewis is funny
Lewis (from 12/20: Every student is funny in their own way) approaches me and says, "Are you affected by Global Warming?"
Me "Sure, are you?"
Him "Well, in what way?"
Me "Is your skin more suseptable to sunburn due to the increase in UV ray penetration and a boost in the albedo effect?"
Him "I would assume so," he says, "I will have to do some research on the internet, and then I will let you know."
This is a classic example of a highly functioning autistic nutcase. Later on that same day he asks me "What is the difference between raw sewage and cooked sewage?"
Me "Sure, are you?"
Him "Well, in what way?"
Me "Is your skin more suseptable to sunburn due to the increase in UV ray penetration and a boost in the albedo effect?"
Him "I would assume so," he says, "I will have to do some research on the internet, and then I will let you know."
This is a classic example of a highly functioning autistic nutcase. Later on that same day he asks me "What is the difference between raw sewage and cooked sewage?"
Wednesday, January 8, 2003
An average day in Riti's life:
From Tucker Max: I asked Riti to keep a running journal of just one day in her life. This is it:
- Emmy got so excited when I was looking at a book with her that she kicked me in the knee really hard, huge bruise already.
- I was so angry that for nap time I put on Wheelz of Steel by Outkast instead of the usual "Betterman" by Pearl Jam. The tards were whining and crying. I was laughing.
- Zach peed his pants. Second time this week.
- I got pulled over for speeding in a school zone. I had to pull into the school parking lot to deal with the cop. He left his lights flashing, and everyone was staring. The short busses pull in, my kids wave at me, see the police lights, and think I am getting in big trouble. One tard refuses to get off the bus. Apparently he has learned from incidents with his parents that flashing lights mean daddy is going away for awhile.
- Kids learned a new song in music. I go to pick them up. The music teacher tells them to sing me the song. They all had forgotten it.
- Ivan brought food coloring from home, and then eats it.
- I tell Zach to stop picking his nose. He tells me his mom says it is OK to pick your nose, just not OK to eat the boogies.
- I am reading "Red Racer" to the kids. It is about a girl who tries to ruin her bike so her parents will buy her a new one. One page describes the sound as her bike goes over a cliff like this "bong, bong, bong." Ivan raised his hand and said his dad has a bong
- Got a new kid today. He can't sit still for the life of him. I told him to put his coat in the coat closet and he started to bitch right off the bat. "Work is too hard, I hate working." Hopefully he will pee in his pants or masturbate or something good.
- Emmy got so excited when I was looking at a book with her that she kicked me in the knee really hard, huge bruise already.
- I was so angry that for nap time I put on Wheelz of Steel by Outkast instead of the usual "Betterman" by Pearl Jam. The tards were whining and crying. I was laughing.
- Zach peed his pants. Second time this week.
- I got pulled over for speeding in a school zone. I had to pull into the school parking lot to deal with the cop. He left his lights flashing, and everyone was staring. The short busses pull in, my kids wave at me, see the police lights, and think I am getting in big trouble. One tard refuses to get off the bus. Apparently he has learned from incidents with his parents that flashing lights mean daddy is going away for awhile.
- Kids learned a new song in music. I go to pick them up. The music teacher tells them to sing me the song. They all had forgotten it.
- Ivan brought food coloring from home, and then eats it.
- I tell Zach to stop picking his nose. He tells me his mom says it is OK to pick your nose, just not OK to eat the boogies.
- I am reading "Red Racer" to the kids. It is about a girl who tries to ruin her bike so her parents will buy her a new one. One page describes the sound as her bike goes over a cliff like this "bong, bong, bong." Ivan raised his hand and said his dad has a bong
- Got a new kid today. He can't sit still for the life of him. I told him to put his coat in the coat closet and he started to bitch right off the bat. "Work is too hard, I hate working." Hopefully he will pee in his pants or masturbate or something good.
Tuesday, January 7, 2003
Riti's class makes stuff for Tucker
My class forgot everything they had learned prior to Christmas break, so we will spend the week reviewing. We made cards for Tucker today. I pulled out the old scrap box, and let them have at it. I even made a sample card to show them. I told them to decorate the outside and to draw pictures of things they liked on the inside.
My favorite card is cut in the shape of Florida, with fish and boats around it. They actually did an OK job. They forget everything important, but can still make funny ass cards. I guess I should dwell on the positive.
My kids are so sweet, as they elected to give their class necklace to Tucker. They earn beads when they are well-behaved for their music and p.e. teachers. These beads go into their bead jar, and every Friday the beads are strung onto their class necklace. It has become quite large.
They wanted to know if my friend Tucker got to play with kids. I said no, he never gets to be around kids, and that is why we are making cards for him. Sweet little Lindsey suggested that Tucker get the necklace because if you want to have friends you need to give them stuff. Hmmm, mom must have taught her that one.
And the mom who tried to kill herself, the one with the deer costume, well, it seems as if she and her kids moved over break. No one really knows for sure, but neither child is present, and it is rumored that they just up and moved. The sad part about this is that Emmy would have made the best card for Tucker. She scribbles and stabs papers with pens and pencils.
Monday, January 6, 2003
Augusta's fear of germs goes to a new level
ugusta has spent every recess inside with me this week, due to his candycane theft before break (see Archive 12/30: Augusta the thief).
He hates it. I hate it more. Augusta smells like a hot litterbox. This is peculiar, as I never noticed it prior to 2003. I honestly think that he is making himself reek in order to keep others away, lessening the chance that someone will touch him. I know, it sounds exaggerated to those of you not in daily contact with tards, but I know my naughty little reetees and I think this is the case.
On Monday he spent all three recesses with me, in my classroom, with his head down. He fucking stank. Happy New Year To Me.
Tuesday he spent the two fifteen minute recesses with me. During the lunch recess (thirty minutes) I let him listen to a booktape at the listening station. I did this strategically, as the listening station is furthest from my desk. I didn't want my lunch to taste like the Augusta.
So here comes Wednesday, when Augusta proceeds to horrify me almost beyond belief.
It is approximately 10:30 a.m. when Augusta asks to go to the bathroom. I allow it, and set the timer. (They have 2 minutes to get back before they lose behavior points.) The timer goes off, Augusta is not back. Because he is a large child, I give him another 2 minutes. He still is not back. (The bathroom is directly next door to my classroom.) I send an aide out to get him. She comes back a minute later without Augusta. This is exactley what she told me:
" I yelled in and said 'Augusta, what are you doing in there?' In a deep, low mans voice, he says 'Go away, no one is in here.'"
Now Augusta is fucking with us. Being retarded and mentally disturbed, I do not find it odd that he is trying to play ghost in the bathroom with us. Now I am going to have to walk into the boys bathroom and haul his ass out. I walk to the door of the bathroom, which is always left open and say, "Augusta you get out here right now."
Augusta doesn't have a lot left to lose if he chooses to not follow directions. His behavior chart is already full of negative comments. He is already in at recess, with no snack, and I have told him already that he will earn no stickers for the entire week. I could revoke PE and Music privileges, but he hates them anyway.
"Do I have to come in and get you? Are you gonna be a baby?" (he is 11). Augusta doesn't respond. I brace myself and enter, only to see the most vile scene possible. This is the best way I can describe it:
The garbage can is in the middle of the floor. Augusta is squatting over it, completely naked from the waste down, one leg on each side of the trash can. His shoes, socks, pants and underwear are in a pile by the sink. His back is to me, his arms are straight out in front of him, and he is taking a dump.
I immediately turn and exit. I feel absolutely violated, like I had popped a few rohypnol, chugged a beer and laid myself on the couch at Phi Delts for all to have at. I then do what I do when I can't deal with what is going on, and push the alert principal button.
He comes down and goes into the bathroom. Augusta has dressed himself, and is washing his hands furiously. There is a pile of shit in the garbage can. The principal escorts him up to the office, where Augusta has a little one-on-one with the school nurse. My aide takes the bag of shit out to the dumpster.
Augusta's mom comes and takes him home, but not before a meeting with the principal. He said she was completely embarrassed.
The school nurse came down later in the day to talk with me. Apparently, Augusta doesn't want to sit on the school toilet seat because he is afraid of getting "butt germs". He used those two words! He will go pee at school, but will not sit down. I can only wonder how many other times this year he has had to take a crap....
He hates it. I hate it more. Augusta smells like a hot litterbox. This is peculiar, as I never noticed it prior to 2003. I honestly think that he is making himself reek in order to keep others away, lessening the chance that someone will touch him. I know, it sounds exaggerated to those of you not in daily contact with tards, but I know my naughty little reetees and I think this is the case.
On Monday he spent all three recesses with me, in my classroom, with his head down. He fucking stank. Happy New Year To Me.
Tuesday he spent the two fifteen minute recesses with me. During the lunch recess (thirty minutes) I let him listen to a booktape at the listening station. I did this strategically, as the listening station is furthest from my desk. I didn't want my lunch to taste like the Augusta.
So here comes Wednesday, when Augusta proceeds to horrify me almost beyond belief.
It is approximately 10:30 a.m. when Augusta asks to go to the bathroom. I allow it, and set the timer. (They have 2 minutes to get back before they lose behavior points.) The timer goes off, Augusta is not back. Because he is a large child, I give him another 2 minutes. He still is not back. (The bathroom is directly next door to my classroom.) I send an aide out to get him. She comes back a minute later without Augusta. This is exactley what she told me:
" I yelled in and said 'Augusta, what are you doing in there?' In a deep, low mans voice, he says 'Go away, no one is in here.'"
Now Augusta is fucking with us. Being retarded and mentally disturbed, I do not find it odd that he is trying to play ghost in the bathroom with us. Now I am going to have to walk into the boys bathroom and haul his ass out. I walk to the door of the bathroom, which is always left open and say, "Augusta you get out here right now."
Augusta doesn't have a lot left to lose if he chooses to not follow directions. His behavior chart is already full of negative comments. He is already in at recess, with no snack, and I have told him already that he will earn no stickers for the entire week. I could revoke PE and Music privileges, but he hates them anyway.
"Do I have to come in and get you? Are you gonna be a baby?" (he is 11). Augusta doesn't respond. I brace myself and enter, only to see the most vile scene possible. This is the best way I can describe it:
The garbage can is in the middle of the floor. Augusta is squatting over it, completely naked from the waste down, one leg on each side of the trash can. His shoes, socks, pants and underwear are in a pile by the sink. His back is to me, his arms are straight out in front of him, and he is taking a dump.
I immediately turn and exit. I feel absolutely violated, like I had popped a few rohypnol, chugged a beer and laid myself on the couch at Phi Delts for all to have at. I then do what I do when I can't deal with what is going on, and push the alert principal button.
He comes down and goes into the bathroom. Augusta has dressed himself, and is washing his hands furiously. There is a pile of shit in the garbage can. The principal escorts him up to the office, where Augusta has a little one-on-one with the school nurse. My aide takes the bag of shit out to the dumpster.
Augusta's mom comes and takes him home, but not before a meeting with the principal. He said she was completely embarrassed.
The school nurse came down later in the day to talk with me. Apparently, Augusta doesn't want to sit on the school toilet seat because he is afraid of getting "butt germs". He used those two words! He will go pee at school, but will not sit down. I can only wonder how many other times this year he has had to take a crap....
Augusta's fear of germs goes to a new level
ugusta has spent every recess inside with me this week, due to his candycane theft before break (see Archive 12/30: Augusta the thief).
He hates it. I hate it more. Augusta smells like a hot litterbox. This is peculiar, as I never noticed it prior to 2003. I honestly think that he is making himself reek in order to keep others away, lessening the chance that someone will touch him. I know, it sounds exaggerated to those of you not in daily contact with tards, but I know my naughty little reetees and I think this is the case.
On Monday he spent all three recesses with me, in my classroom, with his head down. He fucking stank. Happy New Year To Me.
Tuesday he spent the two fifteen minute recesses with me. During the lunch recess (thirty minutes) I let him listen to a booktape at the listening station. I did this strategically, as the listening station is furthest from my desk. I didn't want my lunch to taste like the Augusta.
So here comes Wednesday, when Augusta proceeds to horrify me almost beyond belief.
It is approximately 10:30 a.m. when Augusta asks to go to the bathroom. I allow it, and set the timer. (They have 2 minutes to get back before they lose behavior points.) The timer goes off, Augusta is not back. Because he is a large child, I give him another 2 minutes. He still is not back. (The bathroom is directly next door to my classroom.) I send an aide out to get him. She comes back a minute later without Augusta. This is exactley what she told me:
" I yelled in and said 'Augusta, what are you doing in there?' In a deep, low mans voice, he says 'Go away, no one is in here.'"
Now Augusta is fucking with us. Being retarded and mentally disturbed, I do not find it odd that he is trying to play ghost in the bathroom with us. Now I am going to have to walk into the boys bathroom and haul his ass out. I walk to the door of the bathroom, which is always left open and say, "Augusta you get out here right now."
Augusta doesn't have a lot left to lose if he chooses to not follow directions. His behavior chart is already full of negative comments. He is already in at recess, with no snack, and I have told him already that he will earn no stickers for the entire week. I could revoke PE and Music privileges, but he hates them anyway.
"Do I have to come in and get you? Are you gonna be a baby?" (he is 11). Augusta doesn't respond. I brace myself and enter, only to see the most vile scene possible. This is the best way I can describe it:
The garbage can is in the middle of the floor. Augusta is squatting over it, completely naked from the waste down, one leg on each side of the trash can. His shoes, socks, pants and underwear are in a pile by the sink. His back is to me, his arms are straight out in front of him, and he is taking a dump.
I immediately turn and exit. I feel absolutely violated, like I had popped a few rohypnol, chugged a beer and laid myself on the couch at Phi Delts for all to have at. I then do what I do when I can't deal with what is going on, and push the alert principal button.
He comes down and goes into the bathroom. Augusta has dressed himself, and is washing his hands furiously. There is a pile of shit in the garbage can. The principal escorts him up to the office, where Augusta has a little one-on-one with the school nurse. My aide takes the bag of shit out to the dumpster.
Augusta's mom comes and takes him home, but not before a meeting with the principal. He said she was completely embarrassed.
The school nurse came down later in the day to talk with me. Apparently, Augusta doesn't want to sit on the school toilet seat because he is afraid of getting "butt germs". He used those two words! He will go pee at school, but will not sit down. I can only wonder how many other times this year he has had to take a crap....
He hates it. I hate it more. Augusta smells like a hot litterbox. This is peculiar, as I never noticed it prior to 2003. I honestly think that he is making himself reek in order to keep others away, lessening the chance that someone will touch him. I know, it sounds exaggerated to those of you not in daily contact with tards, but I know my naughty little reetees and I think this is the case.
On Monday he spent all three recesses with me, in my classroom, with his head down. He fucking stank. Happy New Year To Me.
Tuesday he spent the two fifteen minute recesses with me. During the lunch recess (thirty minutes) I let him listen to a booktape at the listening station. I did this strategically, as the listening station is furthest from my desk. I didn't want my lunch to taste like the Augusta.
So here comes Wednesday, when Augusta proceeds to horrify me almost beyond belief.
It is approximately 10:30 a.m. when Augusta asks to go to the bathroom. I allow it, and set the timer. (They have 2 minutes to get back before they lose behavior points.) The timer goes off, Augusta is not back. Because he is a large child, I give him another 2 minutes. He still is not back. (The bathroom is directly next door to my classroom.) I send an aide out to get him. She comes back a minute later without Augusta. This is exactley what she told me:
" I yelled in and said 'Augusta, what are you doing in there?' In a deep, low mans voice, he says 'Go away, no one is in here.'"
Now Augusta is fucking with us. Being retarded and mentally disturbed, I do not find it odd that he is trying to play ghost in the bathroom with us. Now I am going to have to walk into the boys bathroom and haul his ass out. I walk to the door of the bathroom, which is always left open and say, "Augusta you get out here right now."
Augusta doesn't have a lot left to lose if he chooses to not follow directions. His behavior chart is already full of negative comments. He is already in at recess, with no snack, and I have told him already that he will earn no stickers for the entire week. I could revoke PE and Music privileges, but he hates them anyway.
"Do I have to come in and get you? Are you gonna be a baby?" (he is 11). Augusta doesn't respond. I brace myself and enter, only to see the most vile scene possible. This is the best way I can describe it:
The garbage can is in the middle of the floor. Augusta is squatting over it, completely naked from the waste down, one leg on each side of the trash can. His shoes, socks, pants and underwear are in a pile by the sink. His back is to me, his arms are straight out in front of him, and he is taking a dump.
I immediately turn and exit. I feel absolutely violated, like I had popped a few rohypnol, chugged a beer and laid myself on the couch at Phi Delts for all to have at. I then do what I do when I can't deal with what is going on, and push the alert principal button.
He comes down and goes into the bathroom. Augusta has dressed himself, and is washing his hands furiously. There is a pile of shit in the garbage can. The principal escorts him up to the office, where Augusta has a little one-on-one with the school nurse. My aide takes the bag of shit out to the dumpster.
Augusta's mom comes and takes him home, but not before a meeting with the principal. He said she was completely embarrassed.
The school nurse came down later in the day to talk with me. Apparently, Augusta doesn't want to sit on the school toilet seat because he is afraid of getting "butt germs". He used those two words! He will go pee at school, but will not sit down. I can only wonder how many other times this year he has had to take a crap....
Tuesday, December 31, 2002
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!!"
Monday, December 30, 2002
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."
Monday, December 23, 2002
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."
Sunday, December 22, 2002
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.
--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.
Friday, December 20, 2002
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 18, 2002
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
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.
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.
Monday, December 16, 2002
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.
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.
Sunday, December 15, 2002
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.
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.
Saturday, December 14, 2002
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
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."
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."
Monday, December 9, 2002
If you cross Miss Sped, you could get deported
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.
Sunday, December 8, 2002
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.
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.
Friday, December 6, 2002
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, December 5, 2002
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.
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!!!
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!!!
Wednesday, December 4, 2002
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.
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.
Monday, December 2, 2002
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.
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.
Saturday, November 23, 2002
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.
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.
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