Oh, the pain that is the middle school gym class for the 6th grade intellectual. Apparently, today in P.E., Mr. Z got hit on the top of the noggin with a football. He said "Someone kicked it really high and then I looked up and it konked me right on the head." I asked him if he thought of maybe, oh I don't know, catching said ball, but he looked at me as if to say, "Why the shit would I want to do that?!" He summed it up by stating, "I'm not the kinda guy to play football... I like cute things. Stuffed animals, Pokemon... cute farts."
Of course, I explained to him that that sort of information is best kept on the D.L. while actually IN gym class.
I then reminded him that, while he may not particularly care for football, he is hardly "non-athletic." He likes to ride his bike and run around, he hikes at camp all summer, and he loves swimming. Like it or not, Mr. Z, you're actually kinda sporty, dude.
We're trying to break him of the "it's me vs. the jocks" attitude he's been cultivating, of late. But it's really fucking hard to do when his neanderthal gym teacher keeps reinforcing the boneheaded us vs. them gym class environment. He picks all the athletic kids as captains and then they pick and pick until they're left with the nerdarino dregs. You'd think by 2008 these chuckleheads would've come up with a more equitable sorting method.
Attention, Coach Nutsack, here's an idea: how 'bout counting off by twos, ya fuck!
Anywhich, we've assured Mr. Z that he's only gotta suffer through about seven more years of gym class and then he can trade in his jockstrap for a life of the mind. In the meantime, I think I'll send him to school tomorrow in a helmet.
6 comments:
Max plays little league. Up until this year, that consisted of:
a. picking clovers in the outfield
b. running from bees and other bugs in the outfield
c. building sandcastles out of the gravel on the infield
d. doing the potty dance...the entire game
This year, he was actually pretty into it, which is kinda neat. Especially since I'm the least athletic person...ever and it's always been his choice to play or not to play.
Of course, for the past 3 years he's been playing, he's been a perpetual baseball magnet. This year, they started calling him "The Bruise."
Not for his mad beat-down skills, but rather for all of the contusions he received in his at-bats.
And the stupid little league rules don't permit them to take their base when that happens. *shakes fist*
Anyhow, boys will be boys. (As for stuffed animals, Max sleeps with my pooh bear I've had for 28 years.)
And don't get me started on cute farts...
It's good to think of yourself as "other" as far as the jocks go. The jocks end up being neo-Con frat boys. Might as well separate yourself from that ilk as early as you can!
Cute farts. There's nothing better.
jocks = republicans
So, go ahead and get your cute fart on, Mr. Z!
Mr. Z should transfer to Miss W's school. The new gym teacher vowed to have every graduating 5th grader riding a unicycle. Do I withdraw her now or just draw the line at Mime Club?
--Seester
Wow! I had Coach Nutsack too! Excellent post.
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