Wednesday, March 15
P.E. Streak
For the past week it's been nothing but P.E. spread between two middle schools. The thing about subbing P.E. is it really ain't that interesting. Watching kids chuck basketballs is easy, but doesn't make great campfire stories. But there were still a few mild entertainments.
If every kid in every period did 20, then I've supervised 20,000 push-ups this week. But only one did those prison style push-ups you see in movies, you know the ones, using the knuckles. What did he do after he was done? Shank? Trade some smokes? No, he gingerly cradled his bruised and scrapped knuckles.
This one school makes kids pick up trash for detention. Great idea, they're still miserable and they're doing good for the school.
Two kids I didn't recognize joined my class' basketball playing frenzy. I ask if they should be picking up trash. They say no.
But something doesn't add up.
There's some kind of knavish glint in their eyes, which craftily dart leftwards as they talk. Also These kids are standing near two scantly filled trash bags and have plastic gloves for picking up trash.
I decide to investigate.
I ask them their names. The first, out of earshot of his buddy, tells me "Michael." I walk over to the second. He tells me Michael too. Befuddled, I point out they have the same name.
"You told him Michael too?" says the second one.
And they picked up trash for the rest of their days. The End.
If every kid in every period did 20, then I've supervised 20,000 push-ups this week. But only one did those prison style push-ups you see in movies, you know the ones, using the knuckles. What did he do after he was done? Shank? Trade some smokes? No, he gingerly cradled his bruised and scrapped knuckles.
This one school makes kids pick up trash for detention. Great idea, they're still miserable and they're doing good for the school.
Two kids I didn't recognize joined my class' basketball playing frenzy. I ask if they should be picking up trash. They say no.
But something doesn't add up.
There's some kind of knavish glint in their eyes, which craftily dart leftwards as they talk. Also These kids are standing near two scantly filled trash bags and have plastic gloves for picking up trash.
I decide to investigate.
I ask them their names. The first, out of earshot of his buddy, tells me "Michael." I walk over to the second. He tells me Michael too. Befuddled, I point out they have the same name.
"You told him Michael too?" says the second one.
And they picked up trash for the rest of their days. The End.
