A Photo Essay: Texas Dumbass

Viva Mexico

As a teacher I have always considered a huge part of my job to be creating people. I view my students as little people 'eggs' that need help to hatch. While I will not force my views or opinions on anyone, I do want my students to be able to grow up to be thinking, reasonable members of society with a skill set that allows them to avoid prison and gang rape in public showers.

Today I had one of those teaching moments that reached deep down into my small black heart and let me realize my goal of hatching some people 'eggs' and bringing them into the human race as full fledged members. It went something like this;

Student: (pointing at another student) "Why do they get so upset when we call them Mexicans? They call us crackers and gringos, so why should they get upset?"

At once I begin to channel all of my self control so that I do not burst out with something hateful like "soulless redneck bitch" or "cheap banjo playing inbred whore" or "dumb ass white boy."

Me: "Why don't I call you a stupid Canadian cow?"

Student: "I am not from Canada. I am American. I live in Texas."

Me: "Just my point."

Student: "What?"

Me: "I have taught students from Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala. The last thing they want to be called is Mexican. They are not from Mexico. Have never been to Mexico. Will never go to Mexico. They live in the United States, are American Citizens, and are about 1000% more American than Mexican."

Student: "They look alike and call us crackers."

Me: "You look awfully Canadian and stupid to me."

Student: "I am from Texas."

Me: "And and anyone who is American is AMERICAN no matter what color their skin is. Unless you are in Cancun proving what an idiot Americans can be on spring break and talking to a waiter who is a Mexican citizen, I would not call someone a MEXICAN. Mexicans live in Mexico. Americans live in America. Do not call random people of Hispanic descent Mexicans unless you want a severe beating."

Student: "But they call me a cracker!!!"

Me: "Want to be called something worse?"

Student: "No."

Me: "Open your book and get to work before this tired old Gringo brings some crazy up in here."

Hispanic students stop grinning and there is this huge gasp when I call myself a gringo, so I wink at one of them.

Me: "Remember that I know enough Spanish words to get you in trouble."

Thinking Outside the Bucket

Some people would see a five gallon bucket of fresh pickle juice as a problem. Not me. When my devious mind starts working, there is very little that will stop it. Instead of seeing a problem that needed disposing of in some arcane manner, I saw a way to take advantage of the things I have lying around the house.

Add some vermouth and ice cold Tito's Handmade Vodka and it would be a perfect way to dispose of all that pickle juice. Think a Dirty Martini Doom Cake Style.

Add a touch of vermouth to the glass.

Combine equal parts Ice Cold Tito's Handmade Vodka and pickle juice.

The camera flash makes it glow a bit unnaturally, but trust me, it is good. Maybe not a taste everyone is going to like, but it will grow on me. I do have five gallons of pickle juice to deal with. That is one hell of a huge batch of Doom Cake Dirty Martinis. If only I could sell them on ebay.

The Breakfast Fairy II

Oh yes, the breakfast fairy struck again. My wonderful dirt urchins requested cornbread for breakfast and who was I to say no?.

The first thing I do is preheat the oven to 400 F. It has to be HOT for good cornbread.

1 cup flour

1 cup cornmeal

2/3 cup sugar

1 tea spoon salt

3 1/2 tea spoons baking powder

1 egg

1 cup milk

1/3 vegetable oil

Mix it all up nice and smooshy in a cool glass bowl.

Pour it into the missus' fancy silicone baking pan and pop it in the oven for 20 - 25 minutes at 400 F.

Then it pops out all beautiful.

Slice it up, serve with a side of bacon and either fresh blue berries or strawberries. That is what scored me big points with the girls today. Well, that and getting to eat breakfast made the urchins' day.

PS. This is most definitely a southern thing.

Doom Cake: The Feel the Love On Friday the 13th Edition

This was Version 1.0 of Mr. Doom Cake the Teacher with no Heart. There is a certain class of mine that I truly appreciate and when they go to such lengths to prove their love, I can only say that I melt inside just a bit.

This is Version 2.0 of Doom Cake, the Teacher with no heart. I told you they love me. Why else would they go to such great lengths to create master works of art? They even left a paper crown on my desk that is labeled "Mr Evil."

I keep telling them that flattery will get them no where with me, but they sure are trying to butter me up for something. It is days like these that really make me appreciate the job that I do and the kids I get to work with.

One way trip to Hell

This story takes the cake.
It is bad enough that it is another nut job in Texas, but a nut job who scams a whole town for a new set of tits is must plain evil. I can understand a lot of things in this world. Hell, Madoff is evil, but at least I understand greed like that. It can break your soul and turn you into a pure shit head.

But claiming you have cancer so that you can get money for a new set of tits is beyond evil.  I really cannot even contemplate it. This is the kind of shit you would expect out of someone from Louisiana, not Waco, Texas.

I am still waiting to see just what charges she was arrested on, but it was probably to save her life. The backwards hicks in Waco are liable to drag her to the town square and burn her ass at the stake and sadly enough, I have no problem with that.

I can honestly say that if you lie about cancer then you deserve to get ass cancer. Something that makes your butt hole fall off and forces you to shit into a bag for the rest of your life. Maybe her new implants will burst. She just deserves bad things.

A Letter to the Piece of Leather at the Gym

Dearest Leather Face,

I appreciate your need to exercise. I have to admit that at first glance I would gladly stuff dollar bills into your panties if you would show me your breasts, but it is the second and third glances that made me want to puke all over the treadmill.

Rule one: Hide your face. Shit, a body like a top of the line stripper and face that looks like a piece of rawhide that my dog has already chewed up and shit out is horrible. Now I am not making fun of you because you are ugly, but because it is obvious that a)you are surgically altered  b)I am pretty damn sure that you are pushing 60 and/or c)someone who has spent way too much time in a tanning bed. Exercise is fine, but cover that shit up and do not strut past me three or four times. I have a weak stomach.

Rule two: Hag tags are great. Hag tags that actually look like a full set of operating instructions, extended warranty information, or a warning that getting too close is discouraged by the surgeon general are not great. It is one thing to be an aging whore with tats, but an aging whore in a gym who has a scary tat that is bad and she keeps exposing is horrible.

Rule 3: Do not wear white skin tight pants and dark panties. Apparently you were thoughtful enough to wear panties, but neither I, nor the mutant gym rats wanted to know just how far up your ass that thong went. Again I respect your need for showing what you have, but to bend over and repeatedly showing it all off in my field of vision is too much.


Rule 4: The gym is open 24 hours a day. Maybe you should not come out of your coffin till a bit closer to sunrise so that the place will be empty. If you are not some evil vampire, then you are definitely three steps closer to being a mummy than a human.

Rule 5: Shirts are meant to cover your torso. Not barely contain your purple bra and the silicon fun bags that are attempting to erupt out of it.  I am bit prejudiced here, but being 22 and whorish is just fine, but 60 + and whorish is wrong. My apologies if I have the age incorrect because that just means you really need to return the tanning bed that you sleep in. 

Sincerely,

The guy you heard vomiting on the treadmill.

Family Time

If I have said it once, I have said it a hundred times; If my life was a television show, then "RED" from "That 70's Show" would be my dad. Sit down and watch a few episodes and you will begin to understand most of my childhood experiences involving my father.  My dear dead sainted father was not mean or vicious out of spite, but for the same reason that Red is. He just wanted his boy to grow up and make something out of himself.  Being from such different generations made it difficult, but as I got older I really realized that the old guy did not hate me, but he sure as hell wanted me to toughen up, keep my dumb-stick in my pants, and learn how to hold my whiskey. Listen to "A Boy Named Sue" by Johnny Cash a few times and you will get the picture.

As my dad got older, the filter in his brain that kept the really seriously crazy shit in went bad. I have read stories that this is part of getting old. When in his 40's my dad would call me a "Dumb ass" and shake his head, but the time he hit his 80's he would just let loose with a "Damn, you are a total fuck up." Nothing personal again. His brain just no longer applied the polite family filter to his thoughts. It is a scientific fact this happens to everyone, but to watch my normally reserved father start it was fun. My wife's grandfather does the same thing. It does not take much to get Great Grandpa to drop a "Goddamn" on you these days and I have to stifle a giggle every time he does.

Then someone pointed this out to me this week.
Once again if my father was alive I would think he was hiding in this guy's house saying this shit. It is just too much like the old man.

If you have ever watched "2 and a half Men", then you have met my mother. Yes, my mother is in real estate and the resemblance does not end there at all. Once again, not a bad person, but I learned a lot of evil Jedi tricks  from my mom.  My patience I get from my dad. My ability to hunt down seven generations of your entire family and murder them in their sleep with an ice pick just because you took my parking spot I get from her.  I am still pretty sure that her picture pops up in the dictionary next to the word "Vengeance." She can sell houses and she knows the art of revenge pretty damn well too.

So if you are ever lying in bed at night wondering how twisted fucks like me get started, just think of my family. The fact that I am not a serial killer is probably just dumb luck for a lot of people or due to poor investigative skills on the part of the local police. Either way, love your children otherwise they are going to turn out like me. Not a bad thing, but something that should lose some sleep over when you hear them sharpening knives in their bedrooms at night.

Zombie Apocalypse Rule #2