I love to teach.
I love teaching this class. And these kids.
Working so hard, and learning so much. They’re such great students.
So, I’m going to fail them all.
Yes, I’m going to give each one a big fat red F on their report cards.
And they’re going to have to repeat the second grade.
Which means I’ll get them for another year.
What? You think they won’t let me teach them again?
But they let me teach them again this year.
And the year before.
Maybe I’ll keep them forever, here in the second grade.
Pencils down, kids.
Tag: dystopia
Charity
I don’t give to charity anymore.
Once, I participated in a Fun Run to raise funds and awareness for some disease or another. Sure, it was fun, until I stopped running. That’s when the cattle prods came out, and I was aware… that I was in danger.
Then, I volunteered to be jailed so I could call my friends to “bail” me out with contributions to the Cancer Society. But the cops left me in jail. In Maximum Security.
So, I don’t care if there’s a tax deduction or a free t-shirt. It’s still too high a price to pay.
Pray For Them
Sometimes, people ask for me to pray for them.
I don’t pray.
If the invisible man in the sky needs for me to put my hands together to tell him what shit in the world needs fixing, fuck him.
He’s an idiot for not knowing, a pathetic sack of shit for not being able to do anything about it, or an asshole for not wanting to do anything about it.
And I’m certainly not going to thank him for all the blessings, either. Because whatever he doesn’t take away through death or entropy, the government takes away through taxes.
Amen.
Captain Proton
I’m sorry, but there is no Captain Proton. I just made him up.
So, you can stop shouting for help. Oh, and please turn off the Proton Signal. You’re just wasting electricity.
I mean, it’s not that we don’t need a hero to save us every now and then, but for a while, we were doing okay when there was just the idea of one, right?
People treated each other nicer. Arch-criminals laid off the worst capers.
Things were going good.
Until people actually wanted Captain Proton to show up.
Now, things are worse than before.
Try to explain that.
Sir Hugo Daft
Sir Hugo Daft’s compositions are the product of a musical genius and a bloodthirsty sociopath.
Refusing to limit himself to traditional instruments such as the cello or the flute, he dabbles with police sirens, car screeches, women screaming for help, and other noises meant to frighten and distract listeners.
He is just as proud of his seven Grammy awards as he is of his lifetime ban from terrestrial and satellite radio.
“You’re causing dozens of accidents a day with your music!” said the FCC Commissioner.
Daft smiled, accepted the ban, and waited for the Pentagon to buy his weaponized compositions.
Crash
Despite the fact that Lieutenant Martin has horrible vision, he is the son of General Martin, so his application to Flight School was approved.
From day one, Junior’s been a bigger threat to our country’s air defenses than any foreign enemy.
He isn’t very good at landings, as you can see from this report on destroyed assets and casualties, but he does show an aptitude for packing and using his parachute, because it has deployed every time.
We’ll resolve this by sabotaging the ejection seat in his next solo flight.
Just hope that he doesn’t crash into your office building.
Jammed Up
Traffic. Jammed up solid.
Arthur brought his hands together with a clap, shouted YIELD!, and then pulled them apart quickly.
The cars in front of him flew to both sides of the street, clearing a path for him to drive through.
Only until after Arthur had passed through did people climb out of their cars or come out of their doors to survey the damage.
“Damn Wizards union,” muttered a taxi driver. His cab had been forced into a grocer’s sidewalk display of apples.
The insurance company wouldn’t pay for damages either.
He bought an apple and listened for sirens.
Negativity
After years of negative ads the citizens were so disgusted with politics that when Election Day rolled around, nobody showed up at the polls.
Not even the poll workers.
The media weren’t surprised at all, since they were so disgusted by the negativity, whoever hadn’t gotten time off for vacation or a faked-up medical emergency ended up chasing other stories besides the election.
Absentee ballots were completely absent.
Even the urban churches filled their buses with the faithful… and drove them to church to pray.
Washington and every state office was closed.
And people pretty much got along as normal.
Delicious
While dirty, grimy starving children crawl in the alleys picking through garbage piles for food, El Presidente draws his silver sabre and slices a gigantic cake, his generals and wealthy friends standing around him and clapping.
The applause was so loud, nobody heard the screams inside the cake.
Except El Presidente himself, who saw the blood on his sword and smiled.
The CIA agent had tried to seduce him. And failed.
Uniformed servants bring out plates with slices from another cake.
El Presidente declines a piece, preferring to lick the bloody frosting from his sword.
And smiling even wider.
“Delicious.”
Honk
Honk, the God of traffic jams, watches the city from Metro Control, smiling at the video feeds of his followers. He feels a tiny buzz of power with every prayer the populace sends his way, palms slapped against steering wheels to call out his name in frustration, fury, and faith.
Red…
Red…
Red…
Green?
He points at the city map, dispatching construction crews to places where cars can still move.
“Go forth and obstruct,” commands Honk.
The crews head for the garage and prepare to squash the heathens with orange cones red flag.
Honk laughs and smiles upon the city