Fucking middle school.
So, apparently, there are a coupla jock douche-nozzles who are giving Mr. Z a hard time in one of his classes -- just run-of-the-mill jock harassment, the occasional name-calling and general douche-nozzlery. He seems somewhat annoyed by it but the dude is just way too nice to do anything about it. Although, as crabby-progeny, he is obligated to return their fire. It is the crabby way.
I don't remember how old I was when I realized that being a fucking smart-ass was the antidote to any and all of the turds that life chucked my way. I think I was kind of an easy target for awhile there, too. I blame my parents, of course. They were never cynical enough -- always telling me I could be anything I wanted to be and how much other people had to offer. Liars!
Anywhich, I started to realize that it's nearly impossible to force cynicism on a kid who's not ready for it yet. It's like trying to affix a fake mustache to a dog's muzzle -- ultimately, it's just not gonna stick (no matter how much duct tape you use). So, I'd futilely run through role-playing scenarios where I'd say things like, "All you have to do is say, 'Eat my balls, dickcheese.'" and he's say, "No way! I'm not gonna say that!" Other plans involved attaching a spy camera/microphone to his head, teaching him the Three Stooges eye poke and me going to school dressed in a Mr. Z costume for a week. Needless to say, he indulged none of my scenarios.
Cut to yesterday morning when I had a revelation in the shower. But this revelation didn't involve Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap and a warm washcloth. See, I just had to find a solution that Mr. Z would think was hilarious enough that he'd take ownership of the idea and embrace it. So here's what I proposed at the dinner table last night...
ME: Okay, I think I've got a solution. Here's what you do -- next time this butt-nugget says something to you, say, "Whatever, dipes." Then turn away. Then, when he asks you what "dipes" means, say, "Eh, you kinda smell like diapers."
OLD LADY: [laughs hysterically for about three minutes]
MR. Z: Dipes?! Why dipes?
ME: Why not?! It's perfect. And once the name sticks, you're golden.
MR. Z: What if he says, "Did your dad tell you to call me that?"
ME: A) He'd never say that. 2) Then you say, "No, actually your mom told me to call you that last night, as she was crawling out my bedroom window."
OLD LADY: [instantly stops laughing]
MR. Z: Now that's funny. So how do you spell it? Is it d-i-p-e-s or is it d-i-a-p--
ME: NOT IMPORTANT! Spell it however you want! Look, it's a fool-proof plan! DIPES! It can't lose!
MR. Z: That's pretty good. If he says anything tomorrow, I might try it out. [beat] And maybe later I can start calling him "Dick van Dipes!"
ME: YES! That's my boy!
God, I hope he doesn't get his ass kicked.
=====UPDATE=======
Apparently, today the fuckstain who has been bothering Mr. Z was picking on a special ed kid in class, so Mr. Z said, "Leave him alone, Dipes." The kid asked him why he called him Dipes and Mr. Z said "because you kinda smell like diapers." I guess it got to him because he called Mr. Z a "f*ggot," (stay classy, fuckstain), to which Mr. Z flawlessly replied, "Whatever, Dipes."
And the kicker is, Mr. Z heard around school that the kid has been asking people if he smells like diapers. Yeesssss... it's all going according to plan! I told Mr. Z "Now, all you have to do is call him Dipes whenever your see him and by the end of the year, people won't even remember his real name."
Man, what I'd give for one of those freak electrical storms that turns me into a 12 year old kid again and unleashes me on an unsuspecting middle school! There is that Zoltar machine at the mall...
