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.
Sincerely,
Crabbydad
UPDATE:
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.
9 comments:
Wow. You and I differ in our opinions on the game of dodgeball, I'll just say that. My question is, is it the game or the teacher that most bothers you?
Both, Denny. Mostly the teacher but the game is truly barbaric. What's the point, unless you can chuck a ball hard enough to careen it off of some poor schmuck's head.
I'm guessing you were a good chucker?
Yeah, I was a good chucker, but I never went after the people that were not. I was always the type that wanted to go after the best, so I could be the best. I do think it's barbaric to just whip the ball at someone who is defenseless. We used to have some girls(and some guys as well) who didn't want to play, so they would go up to the line and let the others just tap them with the ball. That way they were out, and those that did want to play were left to play hard.
I will send you a $20 bill and some organic bat guano coffee from Trader Joe's if you'll really send that letter to the school.
Seriously.
Last year my oldest decided he wanted to take Dodgeball through the Chicago Park District. (It was offered as a class!) I tried to warn him, but he got it in his head.
He's not the most athletic kid. You can imagine what some of the classes were like. I will mention, however, that after a week or two, some of the bigger kids took him under their wing and they all sort of looked out for each other. I don't recall any malicious ballings.
What I did want to mention however, was the douchebag dad who sat on the sidelines encouraging his kids to hit harder and stop throwing like pussies. I imagine he's related to your gym teacher.
Missed your pearls of wisdom; glad to see you post. I thought I was the only one who ever said University of Moron ... only I say University of M-O-R-O-N. (actually spelling it out) :) Got real good at avoiding the ball slamming into my forming chest muscles, but took many a shot to the side of the face. Those balls sting man!
I'll match Kim's $20 and add a bag of not just organic, but Indonesian bat guano coffee from Trader Joe's, if you find my eighth grade gym teacher and send it to her.
Dear crabbydad,
I am very unathletic. Over the years I have become very good at the dodging part of doge ball. (yes we still play it in high school) the downside to this is that halfway through the class period I am the only person on my team left standing and all the balls are laying on my side of the court. I refuse to throw the ball to the other side of the room where the entire opposing team stands because, well, I will miss and they hugest football player on the team will then pick up the sweat covered orb of doom and chuck it at my face, giving me a nose bleed. It is because of me that a new rule was created. When I am the last one standing and all the dodge balls are on my side, if I can throw the ball across a specific line on the floor my team wins.
Anon,
You have somehow managed to challenge and defeat the system. Quite simply, you rock.
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