My wife and I recently received a note from our son’s kindergarten teacher stating that after a careful review of his journal, he was being sent to the principal’s office for what I can only assume was a crash course on Nobel Prize acceptance speech etiquette. I mean, I was kind of in a hurry and didn’t take too much time to read the email because mostly those emails are of the “your son spent all of today’s ‘carpet time’ trying to make the other students laugh” variety. And beside being puzzled as to where he’d get that kind of behavior from, that shit gets repetitive and old really quick, so I admit I kind of skimmed the contents.
Although I probably should have spent a little more time on an email with the subject “This is a BIG PROBLEM!”, I couldn’t be bothered, especially after finding out that our son is going to be the next Hemingway. And then I found that I was wrong when the teacher sent the journal entry in question home. He’s ALREADY the next Hemingway. Get a load of this:
See? Just like Hemingway, my son eschews overly florid pose, instead favoring brute, direct sentences that hit you with the simple force of the moment. I am, needless to say, overflowing with pride. For those of you who are unable to read my son’s magnum opus because of my poor scan and his masterful use of deliberate misspelling to enhance the mood, here is the full text:
I like my butt. I like my wee-wee. I like my poopie. I like my peepee.
Isn’t that marvelous? Of course, not everyone sees it that way. When my son’s kindergarten teacher followed up with a congratulatory phone call, she informed me that, much to my surprise, there were other perspectives. Jealous, petty, asshole perspectives.
Teacher: Hello, Greg, this is Mrs. Jackson.
Me: Oh, Mrs. Jackson, you didn’t have to call to congratulate me! I’m sure you have other things to do, like organize the month-long party at school to celebrate this momentous occasion.
Teacher: I’m still not sure why you think that your son’s behavior is something to be proud of. This is a serious problem.
Me: Yes, I know that he wrecked the curve, and although it doesn’t seem fair I’m afraid you’re going to have to flunk his entire class. Rules are rules after all.
Teacher: You know, I don’t think I’m getting through to you. Perhaps you should talk to the principal. He feels your son’s “work” is awful.
Me: Well, haters gonna hate, right? You tell that $18,000 a year flunky that after we’re rolling in Nobel-money, we’re gonna make him our bitch. You want us to make it rain for your fundraiser? Ok, Principal Bitch, lemme see you work that pole!
Teacher: Can I talk to your wife?