» Accidental innuendo

Teacher gets owned by a 12 year old
Unfortunately the teacher was me.
A couple of years back I was teaching in a rather deprived area to say the least. Most of the kids had unemployed, junkie parents who spent a lot of time in court. Funny enough, they were nice kids at heart, but rough as fuck, stoned in class, breaking windows, nicking stuff etc. Most of them, if they came to class, had no books or paper and were spazzed out hyper.
You can imagine my delight when over the course of the year, I get them to settle down and actually take interest in the lessons. They were even doing work that wasn't assigned, craptastic but nonetheless it brought a tear to my eye.
I had spent a week teaching them about verbs, "action words, something you can do", I explained this in very simple terms and I was pretty confident that they had it nailed down.
I decided it was time to see my shining scholars demonstrate their new found knowledge, perhaps followed by standing on their desks and declaring "O captain, my captain." Sorry if this goes on a bit, but feel free to skip all of the poem after the first stanza. (I just thought you might like the poem)
Me: Ok, read the following poem and underline the verbs.

Digging


Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

Looking around the classroom, the little unchins were really making an effort, a whole generation of underacheivers sticking it to the man and rising above the shit. The head hyper nutter was buried in the poem, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, eyes focussed, smiling like a mong, hands grubby with ink, even his lice were behaving. Suddenly he sits upright, looks straight at me and beams "finished sir! ask me."
Me: Alright Sean, what's the first verb?
Sean: "Finger" sir.
Now you can see where this is going, but I had put blood sweat and tears into teaching these chavs verbs, and by fuck, verbs they will learn. The blood pressure went through the roof.
Me (eyes popping out of my head, veins in my neck): Sean, what in the blazes is a verb?
Sean: An ackchun word sir, summit' you do sir.
Me: Then how is "finger" a verb? Have you ever seen somebody fingering?
Sean: Yeah, I saw me cousin fingering that slapper Jenny from number 27
You can imagine the uproar. I cut the insides of my mouth trying not to laugh.
It broke my heart to give him detention, genius.
(Fri 13th Jun 2008, 4:44, More)

» Family Feuds

My son
won't speak to me and ignores me most of the time. Not last night though, oh no, after drinking his fill he decided that he would give me his full attention. After waking me (and the neighbors) up and roaring for a few minutes, he proceeds to headbutt me, punch me and gouge my right eye. Then he pukes all over me ,shits his pants and laughs in my face.

Looking forward to our first Christmas though.
(Fri 13th Nov 2009, 1:41, More)

» The Credit Crunch

the good old days
Some of my best memories are from growing up in a house where winter meant wearing a sweater. Soft drinks were a Sunday dinner treat, and by treat,I mean exactly that, sometimes we were denied it. The one year I got a bike for Christmas, it was secondhand, but the exact type of bike I wanted, Yay. Most of my toys were chipped or broken, all were second hand.
TV had one channel and that started at 3 p.m. finishing at 11. Our TV took a few minutes to warm up, so I had to hold down the button for about 5 minutes to turn it on, no remote, remotes were for posh cunts.
Nobody ate at restaurants, at least nobody I knew. Everyone ate old fashioned home cooked meals for dinner, porridge for breakfast, bread and jam for supper. My mum knitted my school sweater to save money, quite a few mums did this. Schools were cold as fuck in winter, kids and teachers wore their coats.
If we wanted a little pocket money, we would do odd jobs for older neighbors, usually for a pittance, comics were cheap secondhand though. If you went on holidays, it was to rent a house in some rainy seaside shithole for a week, winter holidays were not invented yet.
Kids got lice, that was a normal thing to happen. Sticks were great toys. Dog shite turned white. Parks had porn.
Kids made things with their hands, learned how to use tools, got dirty. After school we built huts, stripped the wheels off old prams and made buggies, climbed trees, played football. Most kids hurt themselves at some point, but the scars were a badge of honour.
Mums and Dads knew how to fix things, or at least tried, replacing something was a last resort. I spent weeks holding a flashlight while my father swore at the washing machine he was trying to fix. I learned how to improvise and swear like a sailor in those weeks, I really got to know my parents, nowadays kids are stuck in front of a PSP or TV.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this, it's only money. Tighten the belt and live a simple life, turn down the thermostat and the TV. Chat with your loved ones, play cards or board games, play with your kids. This is going to be a rough ride for many of us, but over the past 25 years people have become greedy cunts who surround themselves with mass produced shit that they don't need, and it doesn't make them happy, so they buy more. Most of us forget what it was like to be without all this stuff, but it wasn't that bad at all, people were just as happy, I know I was.
(Tue 27th Jan 2009, 4:16, More)

» Pubs

Paddy’s day, Ireland.
We’re already off to a bad start. I was a man of some thirty odd summers, give or take. So, one would naturally assume that an Irishman in his thirties can handle a day of celebration with a group of old friends. You would assume. Despite my nationality, I’m not too fond of Paddy’s day celebrations, don’t get me wrong, the parades are good family fun, but the pubs are a nightmare. People throng into the pubs once they open and don’t leave until closing time. Since the smoking ban came into effect it’s a nightmare, people coming in and out the door, pissed out of their mind, and no smoke to cover the smell of farts and sweat.

I went back to university to do a postgraduate course, so I was pretty broke. I had tried the “I’ll catch you guys in the evening” excuse, but my friends weren’t so easily fooled. So, I found myself at 10 a.m. with three pints of Guinness in front of me, compliments of the lads, I don’t normally drink it, but beggars can’t be choosers. The morning progressed to afternoon (no surprises there), but the evening felt very late, it was only 7 p.m. and I was wankered. We moved about the city from crowded pub to crowded pub. I had about 15 pints of Guinness inside me at this point, festering in my gut. Then the decision was made, a few spliffs, and onwards to one of those super-pubs. Usually these sort of places are horrible, but the place in question was a cut above the rest, no drunks allowed, strictly over 23 and no chavs.

Due to the night in question the bouncers had their work cut out, so we all slipped past them on our best behavior. More pints of Guinness downed and I started to sway. I was fading fast but it was still early enough. All of the guys were seasoned Guinness drinkers, but not me. I started to produce a lot of very smelly Guinness farts. Luckily this place was big enough to take a walk around, spread the revolting love and return innocently to my friends. Suddenly I felt the mother of all farts build up, fast. It was like an ostrich egg forcing its way out.

Pop! Out it came, and then started sliding down my boxers. Do farts slide? Let me tell you, they most certainly do fucking not. “Toilets, toilets, toilets” panic stricken I waddled as fast as permissible to the toilets, please God let there be no queue. The heavens looked favorably on this poor, shit smeared cretin. There was one cubicle and it was open. I bolted the door and carefully took down my trousers. Luckily my boxers had contained most of the deluge, but it still was a disaster on the scale of Katrina. I did what any misfortune in my situation would do. Carefully slipped out of the boxers, not easily done after about 20 pints, and dropped them and their contents into the toilet. Time to survey the collateral damage. The inside of my jeans were streaked with black goo, as were my legs. Lumps of shite had slipped down to the bottom of them.
And then I checked for toilet paper. Very little, very little indeed, not enough for the job at hand, but better than nothing. I managed to clean the inside of my jeans a little with the toilet paper, but there was so much left to do. My socks, yes, I can use my socks. This was starting to come up roses, although the stench was stifling.

After using my socks, I was in a pickle; I dumped the socks down the bog and whipped off my T-shirt. I still had a shirt and jacket, so I’ll get away with it. I finished mopping up as much as I could and flushed the socks and jocks down, waited and followed with the T-shirt. I gathered my battered pride, pulled up my cack stained jeans and opened the cubicle. Luckily it was a short walk to the door, I walked a quickly out of the pub leaving a fetid trail behind me. I had tied my coat around my waist to hide the smear, but no coat could hide the smell. I took the back streets home, and did the long shameful walk home, I pity the poor bastard who would even try to mug me in this pathetic state. I had a shower, washed my clothes and went to bed.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from a mate, he wanted to meet up for a pint. Unfortunately it was in the same pub. When we arrived I noticed that there was a large piece of board nailed across the door of the gents. His curiosity aroused, my friend piped up and asked the barman “what’s wrong with the bogs?”
The barman replied:
“Some filthy animal blocked it so badly on St. Paddy’s day that the place flooded with shite later that night. We had to get a plumber to drill down into the sewage system to find the blockage, it was so bad. The toilet itself had to be dismantled. We’re waiting for the renovation work to finish before they can be used again”
“How the fuck does somebody block up a toilet that bad?” asked my friend.
“When they wipe their arse with jocks, socks and T-shirt, and then proceed to flush them down, that’s fucking how, we let our guard down for one night and you see what sort of filthy chav cunts come in.” said the barman
“fucking animals” said my friend.
“fucking animals” said the barman.
“fucking animals” I mumbled.
(Fri 6th Feb 2009, 4:28, More)

» Spoilt Brats

I wiped a smug grin quite fast
I was working as a teacher in a school back home, there was one real little spoilt shite. Let's call him Kevin, for that was his name. Kevin loved to think that he was above everyone, and threw all sorts of hissy fits when asked to do anything. "Kevin, write your name on the answer sheet", "not doing it", "why not?", "coz you can't make me, etc."
The little shit must have heard about his "rights" and how little power teachers these days actually have. So one day he pipes up with this..
kevin: "You know, if you even brushed off me by accident, I can report you and you'll never work again, in fact, all I have to do is say that you did even if you didn't and you'll get fired"
me: "You're right about that Kevin, I'll give you that"
A big thick shit smug grin spreads across his face. I pause for a minute or two, he thinks I'm rattled.
me: "slight correction actually, I'll never work in this country again"
Kevin: "same thing 'innit"
me: "Kevin, any idea where Japan is?"
Kevin: "'course, I'm not stupid"
me: "well, in 2 months I'll be going there, for the rest of my life. Despite my fears of you getting me fired over a phantom brushing off you, they are totaly outweighed by the pleasure I'll get from beating some manners into you."
His bluff had been called, went pale and started back pedaling.
Kevin: "I was only saying, that's all"
me: "Unless you want to practice picking up teeth with broken fingers boyo, I'd think twice about annoying me in the future"
The next 2 months were a pleasure.
(Fri 10th Oct 2008, 7:29, More)