Friday, February 04, 2011

A Dear Gym Letter...

Dear Mr. Z's 8th grade gym teacher,

Dodge ball? Really? It's 20-fucking-11, some 30 plus years since I used to get an over-inflated red rubber ball catapulted at my 10 year old nutsack by a freakishly overdeveloped Orlando Mazzolini at Kipling elementary school, and the best you can muster "physical education-wise" is fucking dodge ball?!

Your douchebaggery is breathtaking.

I don't know... maybe you were flash-frozen in a 1970s block of ice, only to be thawed out almost half a century later, two states eastward, and then forced to immediately come up with a forty minute activity the very second you were reanimated. Maybe you think that the best way to prepare the next generation of humanity for the inevitable globally-warmed armageddon is to build up their throwin' arms and toughen up their supervirus-vulnerable skin with repeated pummelings. Or maybe you're a fucking clueless shitfuck who is somehow oblivious to the fact that dodge-fucking-ball has become forever linked to lazy, drunken, sadistic, dipshit gym teachers, as illustrated in such classics as "Freaks and Geeks," "The Wonder Years," "Mr. Woodcock," and, oh I don't know, maybe the movie "Dodgeball"?!

What, is your last functioning creatine-fried synapse too fucking overworked to come up with a plan other than "whipping shit at the weak"? Are your polyester sans-a-belt shorts choking off all the oxygen meant to supply your tiny ass-brain? Or are you just pissed that after the University of Moron red-shirted your ass freshman year, you then pulled a hammy doing a kegstand at the Theta Chi house, and killed any future you might have had as a rich and famous fat-ass pro lineman, celebrated for being able to eat big hunks of meats and for growing a giant beard and then dropping dead at age 47 when your over-concussed brain melts into a lumpy custard?

How do you have a fucking job, you pointless nugget of turd? Do you know how many unemployed physical education teachers there are in this bankrupt state who would literally rip your mouth-breathing face off of your flat skull for a chance to actually teach and physically educate? The fact that my tax money (which I gladly hand over, by the way -- you shortsighted, treasonous anti-tax fart-nozzles are next on my list) lines the polyester pockets of a ham-headed, cretinous neanderfuck like you makes me want to punch you in the neck, which would, of course, be impossible because I saw you on parent/teacher conference night and your ham-head rests squarely on your ham-shoulders. You, sir, are neckless.

Why I'm wasting type on you, I know not. I mean, you're forcing middle-schoolers to play dodge ball, for shit's sake -- it's like trying to reason with a goat. And at least goats can yield cheese. I don't know what one could make from your milk. Failure curds? Half and half-wit? Simpleton-gurt?

May a gym class' worth of errant, over-inflated red rubber balls rocket their way to your dessicated, steroid-shrunken prune-bag, you worthless ass spray.


Mr. Z informed me that today was the last day of dodge ball. Of course, he also informed me that he got hit in the face "really hard" as a farewell. Hopefully, that's the last time he'll ever have unwelcomed balls smacking into his face.