Really Bad Homework

Yes, I'll write something again soon, but I just couldn't resist posting these examples of really bad homework from American students. Maybe because this is kind of how I was back in school... although I was not quite as brave as some of these students. I'm also pretty sure I wasn't quite as, how do you say, "racially insensitive" as a few of these kids (in fact, it's kinda scary some of the things they write). Anyway, I know these are probably gonna piss off some people, but I don't really care. They're funny. Plus, they give us a pretty good look at why the United States scores so low against other nations when it comes to education. I mean, c'mon, the only two countries that score lower than us anymore are Africa and Mississippi.

 

Children's Summer Reading List

Before I get to the perfect summer reading list for your child, a couple of things...

If you're into that RSS thingie, there is now an orange button on the right sidebar that you can use to get your RSS fix. I'm pretty sure it's legal and won't give you syphilis.

For the first time in, what, 5 years, I have enabled comments and trackbacks (whatever those are) on all posts... because somebody told me I should and I'm too dumb and weak to argue about it.

And now, without further ado, I present a very special summer reading list for kids of all ages. It's just a little something I came across on the Internet and it made me happy...

The End of My Manhood

I've never really had much manhood to speak of. In my whole life, I've never felt the need to get into fist fights like a lot of other guys do. I never wanted to drive a Camaro and peel out in the parking lot of The Rusty Bucket to impress a crowd of drunken skanky hos. And I never learned how to change the oil in a car.

Well, that last one is not entirely true; somebody did once try to show me how to do it, but I didn't pay any attention. I figured, why change your own oil when you can pay somebody lower in the caste system to do it for you?

Whatever gene it is that makes guys try to be really manly and "out-manly" the other men, I'm fairly certain that my gene was damaged at the moment of conception. And sadly, I'm pretty sure that whatever amount of manhood I did have up until now was completely removed from me today.

Three reasons. I'll work backwards chronologically.

First, I just finished watching the movie Mamma Mia! with my wife. That movie was so incredibly gay that my right testicle just whithered and fell onto the floor in the first 10 minutes.

Before that, I watched another movie. It has been 25 years since I saw the movie Footloose. Either I must be absolutely brain damaged or I must have a really bad memory because I thought, Hey, let's watch this thing again. You wanna talk about extraordinarily gay movies, that's one for the ages. When I saw Kevin Bacon storm out of his house, drive to some farm warehouse, and start doing this Broadway dance stuff in an effort to alleviate his burning rage... well, that was when my left testicle plopped onto the floor and rolled under the TV cabinet where it now lives with many neglected dust bunnies.

But the biggie today was my first colonoscopy.

Here's what everybody told me who supposedly knew anything about colonoscopies: Oh, it's no big deal. The preparation is the worst part, where you have to drink that stuff. You won't even be awake during the actual procedure.

Liars. All of them, liars. I was conscious and wide awake for the whole thing.

But first things first. Yes, the preparation part is pretty bad. Here's the deal...

First, you can't eat anything the entire day before the colonoscopy. So the second that I finished dinner the other night, I became hellishly hungry, and it stayed that way for the next 36 hours. Jodi was watching that Bizarre Foods show on TV and I was even getting hungry and jealous when the guy was eating the eyeballs from something (probably from one of the billions of missing orphans in Manilla) and a donkey's butt skin.

Second, they make you go to the pharmacy and buy this big gallon jug with some powder stuff in it. They won't tell you what is in this powder, but I suspect that it's Satan's soul. You have to add water to the Satan powder, mix it up, and drink a bunch of it every 10 seconds until it's gone. This vile elixir is designed to "clean you out" (i.e., make you pee out your butt until you cry). And by the way, Satan's soul tastes nothing like chicken. It tastes like the bottom of the boots from a city sanitation worker.

Then you have to go to the doctor place to do the actual deed. This is where they're supposed to give you a magic pill or magic shot that will zonk you out. And then when you wake up, they're supposed to say, "There's nothing wrong with you. We made you drink Satan's soul for nothing."

But it wasn't like that for me. After getting undressed and putting on my giant napkin, they wheeled me into the colon room. They hooked me up to some stuff and made me turn on my side. This is when I thought I would be falling asleep. But noooooooooooo.

After a little small talk, the doctor starts putting the really long bendy straw thing up my yoo hoo. Well, I felt it at first, but then I didn't feel anything. This means that either my colon has no nerve endings that are supposed to tell my brain, "Hey! Get this thing outta here!" or they did in fact give me something that made me not feel anything, but allowed me to stay awake to enjoy the delightful matinee.

Right in front of my face was a big monitor where we were all watching the bendy straw move through my colon. In case you don't know what my colon looks like, watch the scene about the "Mines of Moria" from The Lord of the Rings. My butt tunnel looks just like the Mines of Moria, minus Frodo and the dwarves. And at one point he came across a polyp, which looked just like Gollum. I watched as he lopped it off. (By the way, he said he didn't think the polyp was anything to worry about. Just that it looked like it was probably filled with Skittles, which we all know are harmless.)

So I'm watching this and my first impulse was to ask the doctor, "And you chose this specialty on purpose? What in the world made you say, 'You know, breast implants are okay, but what I'd really like to do is spend my life inside people's poo holes'"?

And my second impulse was to say, "Hey! I was told I didn't have to be awake for this! I was planning on pretending that it was a bad dream when I woke up! This is killing my manhood!"

After this, they rolled me into what they called the "recovery room," with all of the other people who just had colonoscopies. Recovery room... Right... It's not like the recovery room on M*A*S*H or ER. When you go to a colonoscopy office thingie, a recovery room is the place where they put everybody after their procedures so they can all listen to each other fart. I haven't heard that many humans fart in the same place since the last time I went to a movie theater.

There's just no way to summon any kind of manhood, let alone dignity, after they've explored your butt regions with a bendy straw and then rolled your helpless ass into the big fart room.

I was simply drained from it all.

Really, it was all I could handle for the day.

So then I went home and watched two gay movies that made my balls fall off.

The Feeding of the Children

One day at the recent family reunion, I found myself driving back from the park with two of my sister's youngest kids. How I ended up driving two little kids all by myself, I have no idea. This was not my plan. But that's not unusual. I never have a plan. I don't like plans. But the problem with never having a plan, is that once in a while you end up with two little kids in the car with you. And you're in charge of their welfare. And that's no good. I'm pretty sure I was set up.

The idea is that all of the relatives were supposed to leave the park, go grab whatever they wanted for dinner, and meet back at the hotel around 5:30 to eat. That was the idea. And if I had been all by myself in that car, I would have been the first person to arrive back at the hotel. And I would have finished eating my dinner before anyone else showed up. And I would have been happy.

But I had two little kids to feed.

Unfortuantely, I don't know how to feed kids.

I don't want to feed kids.

But these were my nephews. Two cute little boys, who I love. And I was responsible for them. So I decided I would do my best to feed them.

Now I'm absolutely no good when it comes to anything having to do with kids. I don't even know exactly how old these boys are. I estimate somewhere between 0 and 10. All I know is that one of them is about a year older than the other. But I did learn a few things during this little journey.

First, I learned that you should always tell a kid what he is GOING TO EAT. You should NEVER ask a kid what he WANTS to eat. If I had known about this rule ahead of time, the three of us would have been back at that hotel in about 5 seconds enjoying our dinner of Skittles and Dr. Pepper. But I made the mistake of asking, and they said they wanted pizza. That might not be so bad, but I then asked them what kind of pizza they wanted. It then took the three of us 16 hours to agree on Pizza Hut.

So then I looked up Pizza Hut on the GPS thingie on my phone. Unfortunately, my stupid phone doesn't let me just press something to automatically dial the number. I had to commit the number to memory, switch to the phone part, and then dial the number. But then I figured, Hey, there's three of us here. We can each memorize a few numbers and it'll be easy!

So I memorized the area code. Then I said, "Hey Joseph, here's a number: 345. Can you remember that? 345."

"Uh huh."

"What's your number Joseph?"

"345."

"Good! And Jacob, here's your number: 8672. You got it?"

"8672," he said.

"Good!"

Then I turned off the GPS thingie and got to the phone key pad. I dialed the area code. Then I said, "Okay Joseph, what your number?"

"3."

"Jacob, did you remember your number?"

"4."

It took me 7 minutes and 19 seconds to remember all 10 numbers myself and dial Pizza Hut to place the order.

But Pizza Hut must have ditched all of their phones during the economic downturn, because I couldn't get anybody to answer that number. So I began driving to the restaurant, praying to God the whole way that when we arrived it had not burned down or been turned into a Jiffy Lube.

Ten minutes later we arrived at Pizza Hut. Of course I had to order two different kinds of pizzas because these two little kids insisted on different toppings. I suppose I could have had them split the toppings on one pizza, but I didn't think of that because I'm stupid.

They told me it would be 25 minutes before the pizza was done. This is when I learned another lesson about little kids. For little kids, 25 minutes equals 25 years. I guess there was a time when I was the same way -- years ago when I was a little kid. But now I'm old, so 25 years is like 25 minutes to me.

For the next 17 minutes I kept saying stuff like: "Hey, you guys come sit down over here" ... "Hey leave that alone" ... "Hey stop that" ... "Hey don't do that" ...

At about minute 17, the younger of the two boys had exhausted all possibilities and was now lying face down on the disgusting Pizza Hut floor. I was going to make him get up, because I think that's what my sister would have wanted me to do. But then I decided that's what she gets for sticking me with two kids who, although very cute, cannot memorize numbers or agree on one topping. So I allowed him to continue to explore the goo on the floor until the pizzas were done.

We arrived back at the hotel over an hour late.

Everyone else was already finished eating.

I was exhausted.

Our pizza was greasy.

But I did return both kids in one piece.

Even though Joseph had Pizza Hut's floor on his face.

The end.