What He Wrought Was Rotten!

Where have I been these past few days? Caught up in the ozone of a student's intestinal air brigade, that's where.

I was just trying to read "The Umpire's Son" (the 1997 Pulitzer for Feature Writing) when all the boys started choking and gagging and making a dramatic fuss. I ignored it, gave them my typical "sush" and kept on. And then the stank air invaded my mouth. It was in my mouth. The gas of the student had a green hand with long fingernails and it scratched my mouth, puncturing my tastebuds. Oh, it was sour and awful and it smudged my dry erase whiteboard.

The kid laughed. Ha. Ha. Ha. "It was me!"

My tear ducts welled up, but I was a trouper and continued reading. even though an air gremlin was trying to fight it's way into my nostrils and my mouth. Then, another anal terrorist attack hummed into the air, making the kid break into raucous laughter. He tipped back in his chair, he got up and danced around.

"I can't help it," he said, "I eat the dead."

OK. He didn't dance around...that's a bit of an embellishment. This kid (using my dramatic quote fingers) cut the cheese three times. I ran to my closet, pulled out my Fresh Linen Lysol (kept in times of an air crisis such as this), made sure no student had a bad case of asthma and started spraying close to the students' feet, then wafting the smell up.

It hurt to breathe. I couldn't help but laugh at how bad it stank. I also kicked the kid out of the classroom. "You can listen to me read in the hallway."

I was mortified when I was in middle school the one time I audibly farted, but it didn't smell. The girl next to me just said, "Evan, that was uncalled for."

But this kid? He was proud of what he wrought, but what he wrought was rotten.