At school I hire myself out to Ms. Freschi and Mr. Micheal "I-Am-Not-Asian" Spaay practically kisses Ms. Nelson's boots every third period. The rooms are right next to each other, rm. 30 & 31, and since both the teachers teach freshmen English I see Spaay a lot. Like all freakin' period.
So today I was grading freshmen evaluation tests with Spaay, listening to him yammer and babble and spasticize. (That's a new word, invented just for him. Spaay doesn't work, he spasticizes.) He was all psyched up because he got to brush up against Ms. Nelson's butt or something. Eeeew! He does realize that she's a bloodyfreaky TEACHER, doesn't he?
Anyway, so we're grading these tests, and Spaay suddenly realizes he can't do multiplication. We're talking easy stuff, too.
Spaay: Sam, what's 21 times two?
Me: Forty-two.
Spaay: What's 36 times two?
Me: Seventy-two.
Spaay: What's 25 times two?
Me: Dude, what do you get when you have two quarters?
Spaay: Huh? OHhhhh...
Honestly. Listening to that for an hour is enough to drive anyone mad. And we didn't even finish grading all those tests for Freschi and Clinton and Clarke and Nelson and whoever else teaches freshmen English. Which means I get to do this again on Monday.
Again. Ugh. If it didn't hurt my grade so much, I think I'd call in sick.
Arrrrrrrrrr...