I think I mentioned a few weeks ago that this dickfer bully kid from Mr. Z's school, who had moved away a couple of years ago, moved back and is causing renewed tension for the boy. It has now officially become "a problem" and I'm ready to murdalize this little fucker.
Apparently, this kid has been tormenting Mr. Z by the swings during recess -- trying to knock him down and calling him names and other charming shit like that. I guess the first couple of times, Mr. Z cried, which I'm sure egged this sociopath on, but the last time or so, Mr. Z held his shit together, which is a big step for him.
It all started in second grade, when Mr. Z was not only the new kid, but was also younger than everyone else by two years and was less mature socially in a big way. Perfect target for cro-magfuck to zero in on. Now, two years later, he's back for more. The cool thing is that Mr. Z has really matured in the last couple of years and he's not just going to sit and take it anymore. The other cool thing is that he tells us everything, so we can nip this mofo in the bud before it ruins his whole 4th grade experience.
Luckily, Mr. Z's teacher and his principal have a zero-tolerance-for-bullying policy and they're on this little shit like fungus on my big toenail. Apparently, Mr. Z isn't his only target and they've already scheduled a meeting with his mom, so his welcome is wearing mighty thin.
It just pisses me off so fucking much -- Mr. Z LOVES school more than anything else and I cannot tolerate anyone or anything dilluting that passion that he has. It broke my heart at dinner tonight when he told us that his heart started pounding "really, really fast" when he first saw this kid in the hallway, and that he wishes the kid would just move away again.
Part of me feels like telling Mr. Z to just stay away from the swings and avoid this assface, but then I'm like, fuck that, Mr. Z shouldn't have to run away from anything. It's his fucking school and he should be able to play wherever he goddamn chooses. The third part of me, like from the shins down, wishes Mr. Z would pull a Peter-Brady-on-Buddy-Hinton move and just cave the lil' fucker's pie-hole in. And then there's the part of me that's tempted to pull the kid aside, when I see him before school, and whisper something like, "If you even look cross-eyed at Mr. Z again, your parents will die a fiery death and I'll make sure you're violently devoured by rabid nutria."
I'll hold my tongue long enough to see what the principal can accomplish. If that doesn't work, I'm finding me some killer nutria.