The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Slurpening

The only thing that connects every school I've ever studied in is the fact that nurses think that ice packs are some Harry Potter bezoar looking bs that can cure anything, from nausea to a severed arm — which, I might add, I once saw a nurse did after a serial killer started to stalk my high school a few years ago. 

Oddly, it never occurred to her to put the ice packs over the severed arm to preserve it while the ambulance came. Professor Stumpy was never the same again. Prophetic name, though. 

As soon as the nurse made sure I wasn't at risk of being a school liability, she slapped an ice pack on my head, with, A) Ouch, and B) I have to return later, which, you have to be very miserable to ask for a disposable ice pack to be returned. A balanced budget my ass. I think this is one of those schools that put all the money into the sports program. 

You don't get to be school royalty if your program is not dick-deep in dough. 

Anyhow, my last class of the day is Biology, and I'm already late enough as it is. I knock on the door, which immediately falls over. 

"Goddammit!" I hear a distinctively French voice coming out of a French mouth attached to a French man. Like his accent, this man is thin, weirdly shaped, and with a small, slightly sex-offendery mustache. If I were to find this man in a public library, I would leave immediately while dunking my eyes in hand sanitizer. Why haven't they made eye sanitizer?

"See, this is what those fils de putes at the school board think of the science programs," the man says in a manner that would imply that his rectum was currently inhabited by a particularly resilient baguette. "Can't even afford a decent door. This is why you Americans are so dumb. You put all your money on some inutile sports ball thing. Even your nuclear codes are called a football. Merde!"

I look at the imaginary camera with a smug look for dramatic effect. 

"Ah, tu must be ze new student, non?" says baguette boy. "Enter and prop up ze door with that rock over there, sil vous plaît."

Sure enough, right there, next to the door, is an otherwise unremarkable rock, were it not for the crudely tapped label on one side that reads "Property of the HVMWH Biology/Home Ec/French Lab."

The room, just like the teacher, is dilapidated, cracking, and with a faint hint of sadness in it. It contains a mixture of biology equipment, cooking supplies, and motivational posters in French of varying quality — from complete shit, to only partial shit. The only thing I see worth anything is one single faucet that only looks a bit shit. 

No, never mind, it's leaking. Still shit. 

Out of twenty lightbulbs, the weird tube ones, only three are working, and one of them seems to be having a stroke. That, or it thinks we are in a nightclub. Follow your dreams, little light. 

"For all of ze one of you who don't know moi," says the man, "my name is Emile Escoffier, and I'm ze biology/home ec/french teacher of zis, quote on quote, fine institution. And if tu are asking why one lab for three subjects, it's because of ze golden boy over there jumpstarting our sports program."

Let it be known in the records that he pointed at Hayden when he said that. Let it also be known that he did it with his middle finger. 

"Now, newbie," he says, wrapping his sticky French hands around my shoulders. Seriously, what the hell is about my shoulders that make people wanna touch them? Is it my biceps? "Today, ve are going to dissect a grenouille, then, be will cut them and make cuisses de grenouille à la provençale. That's frog and frog legs. It will be on the test. And oui, ve also have ze three classes at once. Again, not enough money. Oh, but ze is enough money to buy golden boy there some new gear every quarter."