A Letter To a Completely Good Teacher
By Michael Lawrence
Dear Mrs. Knipp,
I just wanted to let you know that -- to the bottommost pit of my arm
-- I am sorry about what happened yesterday. I admit it was my fault
that my paper was late -- I should have saved it on my computer or made
multiple copies of it -- but honestly, what happened to it was not my
fault!
I know you were a little upset at me when I tried to -- as you put it
-- pull a fast one on you as if you were "A dead drunk floozy girl from
New Orleans, Louisiana on Mardi Gras at midnight" (I'm meaning to ask
exactly where you picked up that expression.) But you've got to believe
me! My dog really did eat my homework.
I know you got a little angry when you thought I called you an ugly
face yesterday, but I honestly -- hope to God, dive to lie, stick a
needle through my cornea -- did not!
Here's the dialogue that went on as I vividly recall it: (I have a
memory that's practically photogenic in case you're wondering).
Me: Uhhh, Mrs. Knipp, I don't have my paper today.
The Great One: *Glowering from above* THEN THOU SHALT BE DAMNED!
Me: Mrs. Knipp, I have a legit excuse this time, actually--
The All-Encompassing Savior of Language Arts: THIS OUGHT TO BE A GOOD
LAUGH! WHAT HAPPENED TO IT THIS TIME, PEASANT? WAS IT ACCIDENTALLY
LAUNCHED INTO SPACE OR SQUASHED BY A MOOSE?
Me: No, actually. My dog ate it.
The Completely Stunningly Beautiful Woman And Ideal School Teacher, Who
Is Desired By All Men With Half A Brain: HOW DARE THOU MOCK ME! WHO
DOTH THOU TAKE ME FOR, YOU UTTER FOOL? A DEAD DRUNK FLOOZY GIRL FROM
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA ON MARDI GRAS AT MIDNIGHT?!
Me: Certainly not, Mrs. Knipp! I've never even met a girl from New
Orleans, much less one that is dead drunk and a floozy. Although I have
met a dead drunk floozy from Baton Rouge come to think of it? But my
dog really did eat my homework. Uglyface!
*Was that floozy thing a historical question?*
The Exquisitely Cultured Upper Class Savior of the Working Class
Freedom Fighter, Like Lady Godiva: DID THOU JUST CALL ME UGLY FACE? HOW
DAREST THOU?! THOU SHALT BE CONDEMMED IN THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE FOR
ETERNITY!.
Me: But--
The Completely Fair and Justice-Serving Queen Who Is Not Evil And Whose
Magic Mirror On The Wall Says You Are Better Than The Fairest Of Them
All, And Whose An Absolute Babe Too: SHUT THOU DAMMED LIPS, YOU DIRTY
PEASANT OF MUCK! THOU SHOULDETH BE ASHAMED OF THYSELF! MARCH THOSE
PATHETIC LEGS OF YOURS OUT OF MY CLASSROOM! RIGHT THIS MINUTE,
DEMONCHILD!
Me: But--
The Most Intelligent Woman To Ever Roam The Earth, Whose More
Intelligent Than Any Man Either, But I Didn't Want To Put That At The
Beginning Of This Sentence In Fear That I Would Insinuate That You Are
A Man, Which I Do Not Want To Do, Because It's Not True, I Don't Think:
DON'T TALK BACK, YOU SAD LITTLE CHILD, YOU SUBJECT OF EVIL, AND LOWLY
CLEANER OF PUBLIC RESTROOM FACILITIES! OUT NOW!
If you would have quit acting so damn biblical on me and let me get in
a word that doesn't have to do with the latter end of my digestive
system, I would have quite plainly explained to you that Uglyface is,
in fact, the name the name of my dog. Honestly! So you really didn't
have to send me to the principal's office!
Please be patient with me o Grand Duchess of Mercy as I try to explain
my wretched little self to you.
We got our dog about five years ago at the local city dog pound. He was
the most cutest and adorable little thing we've ever seen. He was even
more cuter when we removed all the ticks from his eyes and treated him
for mange. As a memento of this absolutely Kodak-moment moment, as a
family, we've decided to name him Uglyface.
Uglyface is a loving dog and he always has been. Every day when I come
home from school, he licks my face (after tackling me and knocking over
sixty-six percent of my mother's flower pots). He licks me for hours
until my face turns into a prune -- literally. In fact, he wouldn't
stop until I correctly guessed what small, defenseless rodent he
consumed while I was at school that day. It was a very fun game, and in
it, lies some of my most fondest memories.
Anyway, that has very little to do with what brought Uglyface on to eat
my homework -- that's what I'm getting at -- just be patient, o Patient
One.
My stepfather, whose actual name is Dudley DoRight, (and I'm not making
this up, o Queen of My Heart) decided that going outside to get the
newspaper every morning was simply too dangerous of a task.
Somehow, whenever my stepfather (Dudley DoRight) tries to get the
morning paper, he manages to either run into a tree, be flattened by an
approaching car, get smashed by an incoming meteor, or have an
encounter with his deranged elementary school librarian who claims he
has a thirty-three-year-old late fee. I have to give at least some
credit to the man, though, when he made this grand realization one day:
perhaps he oughtn't get the paper anymore.
He did asked me to do it, but I wouldn't get the paper for that idiotic
bozo if my life depended on it. The reason? Well, I saw him do
something to my mother that I simply did not approve of. I caught him
and my mother...in the bathroom...brushing each other's teeth. THAT is
an image that I will NEVER be able to erase until the FORTUNATE day I
die! I'm sure you don't want to hear anymore details about my mother
and stepfather in the bathroom (I later caught those sickos cleaning
out each other's ears with Popsicle sticks, but that's another sicko
story altogether).
So, my stepfather decided to train Uglyface to get the paper every
morning. Of course my stepfather had his fair share of mishaps in the
process. One time, instead of actually getting the newspaper when being
told "Get the paper, boy," Dudley DoRight somehow managed to get it
across to Uglyface that he was supposed to get the actual Paper
Boy.
Somehow, through some strange miracle, and a lot of trips to the
doctors, hospitals, lawyers, vivisectionists, etc. my stepfather
eventually taught Uglyface how to correctly deliver the paper every
morning.
O Light Of My Life, o Glitter Of My Eye, o One Who Causes Me To
Defecate Peacefully in My Pants, please excuse me while I get a little
bit off topic?
As you probably already know, a recent scientific study proved that
over 90 percent of paper currency contain traces of drugs (cocaine,
heroin, Children's Tylenol, etc.) However the press seemed to have
miscommunicated something: they suggested that 90 percent of these
bills have been handled by addicts, who have also handled the drug
itself, and then the cash. Therefore, as the press suggested, traces of
the drug have adhered to the bill. However, that is clearly false.
Actually, the drugs are contained in the ink itself.
You see, when the ballpoint pen was founded in 1953 by Lucille Ball,
the ink had to be of a thicker consistency because too many people were
trying to squirt the ink out at each other. This was causing a national
crisis. So, Lucille Ball had the idea, along with her husband and
sitcom costar, Abraham Lincoln, to give that ink something to give it a
thicker consistency. Therefore, the ink would be more difficult -- or
impossible -- to squirt at people.
They tried flour, but creatures called adictus flourus (flour bugs)
invaded the pen factories and ate everything (including the factory
itself).
What happened next is a bit difficult to explain, so I'll do it in a
timeline fashion.
5-23-1953
Pro-Log: Lucy had a bowl of ink in her dressing room. She was going to
eventually try testing the ink -- putting random powders into it so she
could figure out what would give it that magical consistency. (I'm sure
you've heard this before, o Noble Teacher of My Soul, You. I'm simply
regurgitating the facts)?
10:16 a.m. Little Ricky sneaks into his mother's dressing room.
10:18 a.m. Little Ricky switches that weird powdery stuff (you know,
the stuff that women like to put on their faces so they look like
vampires) with cocaine.
10:19 a.m. Little Ricky laughs.
10:20 a.m. Little Ricky is still laughing.
10:22 a.m. Little Ricky dies.
10:23 a.m. Mrs. Trumbull removes body and eats it. (I knew there was
something weird about her.)
10:25 a.m. Lucy enters the room, unsuspecting of the Columbian export.
(I guess Christopher Columbus was still alive back then. Making
cocaine, no less.)
10:26 a.m. "Oh my!" Lucy exclaims, putting back of hand on forehead.
"My *beep* nose is shiny *beeping* *beep* f *beeeeeeeep!*" (Contrary to
popular belief, censors in the 50's actually followed everybody in the
world around with a buzzer).
10:27 a.m. "Get out of my *beep* *beep* dressing room you *beeping*
*beep* *beep* *beep*hole!"
10:28 a.m. Lucy knocks censor out with Big Ricky's bongo drum. "*beep*"
The censor pushed the buzzer once.
10:29 a.m. Mrs. Trumbull enters room and eats censor.
10:30 a.m. Mrs. Trumbull is immediately congratulated by hot Hollywood
producer because she lands spot on milk commercial saying "Does a body
good."
10:31 a.m. "Serves that *crash* right, coming into my *boom* *rumble*
*swish* *scream* dressing room!" Lucy says. (Legend has it, a lone and
desperate censor was outside, pounding around, in the alley.)
10:32 a.m. Lucy finally begins to powder her nose.
10:33 a.m. Lucy continues to powder her nose.
10:48 a.m. Lucy -- still -- continues to powder her nose.
3:50 p.m. Lucy's eyes begin to turn red.
3:55 p.m. Fred and Ethel Merman enter the dressing room.
3:56 p.m. "Gee, Lucy" Ethel says. "Why, you have cocaine rubbed all
over your face! You're a star, Lucy. You don't have to take this drug
to bring yourself to a dream world -- because your life IS a dream
world. Why Lucy, you're the top!" Ethel Merman begins to sing,
acapella:
"You're the top! You're the Colosseum,
You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum,
You're a melody from a symphony by Strauss,
You're a Bendel bonnet, a Shakespeare sonnet,
You're Mickey Mouse.
You're the Nile, You're the Tow'r of Pisa,
You're the smile on the Mona Lisa.
I'm a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop,
But if, Baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!"
3:42 p.m. Lucy continues to powder her nose. Fred thinks Ethel is a
loony.
3:43 p.m. "Oh, Lucy. Haven't you learned anything I told you?" Ethel
says looking at Lucy shameful-like. Bing Crosby (with his top hat,
fancy cane, tuxedo, big red clown nose, and whatnot) enters the room.
The dressing room turns Technicolor.
3:43:30 p.m. Fred says "Wow! I'm in Techno color!"
3:44 p.m. The band begins to play loud and lavishly. The dressing room
darkens and a spotlight shines on Bing.
Bing yells: "Oh Lucy! Don't you realize who you are? You have a lot of
things going for you, Lucy. You really do. Your the lovable housewife
of a Cuban bongo-pounding communist, your triumphant laugh makes me
perspire in apprehension, and your smile is so glorious that it looks
like it can plunge a potty. Oh Lucy, your absolutely hilarious mix-ups,
screw-ups, and mishaps are as innocent as can be. And every time you
dye your hair red, it turns gray instead. But Lucy, you're the finest.
You're the unsurpassed sitcom queen. You're destined for countless
years of reruns. Oh Lucy, can't you see? You're the top!" Bing begins
to sing:
"You're the top! You're a Ritz hot toddy.
You're the top! You're a Brewster body.
You're the boats that glide on the sleepy Zuider Zee,
You're a Nathan Panning, You're Bishop Manning,
You're broccoli.
You're a prize, You're a night at Coney,
You're the eyes of Irene Bordoni,
I'm a broken doll, a fol-de-rol, a blop,
But if, Baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top."
3:49 p.m. Lucy stops powdering her nose for a moment. She says: "Do you
really think I'm a Ritz hot toddy, mister Crosby?"
3:49:23 p.m. "Of course, Lucy," Bing says. "And broccoli, too."
3:49:35:201:543432 p.m. "Broccoli?!" Lucy exclaims. (Because she's
probably a little high from the drugs by now, it took her a little
while for this information to fully sink in)
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?"
3:51 p.m. Big Ricky enters the room. "Wow! I'm een color!" he exclaims.
Big Ricky picks up bongo on floor. "Honey!" Big Ricky exclaims. "What's
wron'?"
3:51 ? p.m. "?aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" Lucy wipes nose on
powdering-applier. "Bing Crosby thinks I look like broccoli!
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" Lucy starts powdering her nose again.
3:52 p.m. Big Ricky smiles and says, with the orchestra beginning to
pick up in the background: "Oh Lucy! Why you so dow'? Ev'ryone loves
Lucy. I love Lucy! Your de star of de Uniteed States! Lemme 'splain
somethin' to you honey. You're de greatest! You're de best dere ever
was in seetcom comedy, and ever will be, honey! Julia Louees-Dreyfuss,
Shelley Long, Mary Tyler Moore, Ellen DeGeneres -- dere people you've
never even heard of yet dey are all *rumble'n'tumble*kers compared to
you! Oh Lucy! Can't you see? You're de top!" Ricky begins to sing and
bong his bongos to "Cuban Pete" despite the fact that the background
orchestra is still playing the music for "You're the Top."
"They call me Cuban Pete
I'm the King of the Rumba beat
When I play the maracas
I go chick-chicky-boom
Chick-chicky-boom
Yes, Sir, I'm Cuban Pete
I'm the craze of my native street
When I start to dance
Everything goes chick-chicky-boom
Chick-chicky-boom
4:02 p.m. "You *crash* shit moron!" Fred exclaims at Big Ricky. Fred
leaves the room to raid studio refrigerator.
4:03 p.m. Alley censor is shot by censor company.
4:04 p.m. Mrs. Trumbull eats censor and censor bullet.
4:05 p.m. Lucy continues to powder nose.
4:06 p.m. "Now Lucy!" Ethel Merman exclaims. "Quit using that
cocaine!"
4:07 p.m. Lucy continues to powder nose.
4:08 p.m. Ethel Merman dumps cocaine into Lucy's bowl of ink.
4:09 p.m. Lucy experiences withdrawal syndrome.
4:10 p.m. Lucy looks at ink.
5:12 p.m. Lucy continues to look at ink.
6:54 p.m. Bing Crosby dies of boredom.
6:56 p.m. Mrs. Trumbull is full, lets Bing rot.
7:25 p.m. "Eureka! I've found it!" Lucy exclaims.
Fred comes shooting through the dressing room door. "Gold?!" he
asks.
7:26 p.m. "No, silly, the answer to my problem!" Lucy exclaims looking
at the ink.
"Wha, your gonna dye your hair blonde? Aye aye aye aye AYE!" Big Ricky
exclaims, thumping a couple of excited beats on the bongo.
"No, no no!" Lucy exclaims. "This is it! This is how you get ink at a
think consistency without using flour! Cocaine! Cocaine is the
answer!"
7:28 p.m. "Uhhh, Lucy, honey," Big Ricky says, confused. "I think
someone ate our son."
Anti-Log: So that was it. That is what happened on the hysteric day of
May 23, 1953. Lucy's ink company went on to be a big success. In fact,
when she named the pen company "Bic," it was actually supposed to be
called "Rick" in memory of her eaten son. However, when she registered
the company with the Government Company Registering Services, Ind.,
Inc., Co., PhD., LSD, she forgot how to spell "Rick" and left of the
"k." Since she was probably still high, her handwriting was warped so
the two lines on the bottom of the "R" appeared to merge
together.
In fact, Lucy's ink formula caught on world wide. Not only is this
cocaine-enhanced ink used to make the ballpoint pens and paper
currency, it's also used to make newspapers. This is the reason
newspapers didn't report, specifically, why researchers were detecting
so many drugs on paper currency. Had they done so, then newspapers
would likely have had to revert to the old method of publishing, which
is dangerous and could cause another Lewinsky scandal.
I bet your asking, o Beauty Beyond Repair, what this has to do with why
Uglyface (my dog) ate my homework. So, I guess now's a good time to
address that.
Well, as I've mentioned earlier, my stepfather (Dudley DoRight) trained
Uglyface to get the newspaper every morning. And like every
newspaper-fetching dog normally does, it carries the paper in its
teeth.
In doing this, the cocaine-enhanced ink manages to run on his teeth and
cocaine gets into Uglyface's digestive system. This, of course, gives
him a buzz, so he starts flapping his arms like a bee. About two weeks
into Uglyface's newspaper duty, he was addicted to the drug and started
eating the newspapers. Three days later, Uglyface ate every single
paper product in the household (including the wall paper).
Of course you might be asking why this isn't a common occurrence among
all canines -- I'm sure billions of household dogs get the paper every
morning. Well, cocaine actually doesn't normally have an effect on
canines -- the only exception is Uglyface's particular
mixed-breed.
You see, in order for a canine to be addicted to cocaine, it has to be
a mix of three breeds. In mixing these breeds, it forms a connection
with three essential cocaine-related regions of America. The dog has to
be part Columbian-Saint Bernard, a branch of the Saint Bernard breed
that reproduced in the wild (they originally had escaped from Saint
Bernard ranches the Iroquois Indians raised in the Columbian region.)
The dog has to be part Chihuahua (originally from the area in Panama
that is located below the equator and 254.43 miles east of Iceland).
And the dog also has to be part Golden Retriever, who have been
specifically bred never to poop (they originate in clean Midwest, urban
domesticated homes.)
Now, look at this connection:
Columbia - The Columbian Saint Bernard Dog - where cocaine is grown and
processed
Panama - The Chihuahua Dog - Where the cocaine is generally transported
from Columbia to the U.S.
The U.S. - The Golden Retriever - The typical dog of America
It's strange that MY dog happens to be a Columbian Saint
Bernard-Chihuahua-Golden Retriever. Hmmm?
It's scientifically evident that when the dog is culturally connected
with ALL THREE cocaine related areas, the same connection is made
within the dog's brain, therefore Uglyface is susceptible to cocaine
addiction.
See, Mrs. Knipp, o Fair Grader of Papers, o Most Beloved Teacher in the
School Practically, o Grand Inspiration To Us All, my paper had
absolutely NO chance of survival. How was I supposed to know my dog was
Columbian Saint Bernard/Chihuahua/Golden Retriever? How was I supposed
to know he was going to get addicted to ink and go psycho? How was I
supposed to know he would eat every single paper product in the house?
And how was I supposed to know he was going to do this THE NIGHT BEFORE
the paper was due?
There was no way for me NOR YOU to have possibly known that.
So please, o Gracious Patron of My Heart, o Compassionate Humanitarian
of My Soul, o Exquisitely Lovely Teacher of My Dreams, know that I did
not insult your inelegance or call you an ugly face. Please have pity
on me. I IMPLODE YOU!
Please let me turn in my research paper tomorrow, for 100 percent and
full credit. I ask, deeply and humbly, to be allowed free from F-dom
hell and be allowed to flutter peacefully to my rightful place: A-dom.
It's the only just thing to do. Being the humanitarian, great, and
luscious person that you are, I'm positive you'll come to the proper
decision.
Thank you for your time, effort, love, peace, and moonshine,
Steven P. Hanibuuk
Note from actual author: (Lyrics stolen from "You're the Top" by Cole
Porter and "Cuban Pete/Sally Sweet" by Desi Arnaz.)
