| Report for Weird Al | |
|---|---|
| Rejected stories | 5 |
| Summary | Mean Boy |
Best employed in large crowds, such as those found on the school bus home. The paedophile at the back is the ideal target.
This form of missile launching is no less fun at 21 years of age, and the necklaces are available at your local Spar.
This form of missile launching is no less fun at 21 years of age, and the necklaces are available at your local Spar.
The newly-accepted version, or at least the version I was spoon-fed, was the catch-a-baby-by-its-toe version.
Because this isn't very entertaining and doesn't make much sense, we decided that it would be apt to alter the final lines, instead of this offending line, into "If it squeals, wipe its bum / with a piece of chewing gum."
This was considered the epitome of comedic genius at 8.
Because this isn't very entertaining and doesn't make much sense, we decided that it would be apt to alter the final lines, instead of this offending line, into "If it squeals, wipe its bum / with a piece of chewing gum."
This was considered the epitome of comedic genius at 8.
Lung puppets and hearts notwithstanding, when we were doing dissection in biology we were given the option to not have to do it if we didn't want to.
Being the impressionable sort, I decided not to opt out until I saw a couple of the more reputable kids were moving off to the corner of the room. I decided to follow, wondering why they chose to forgo an opportunity for macho displays of masculinity for the relatively modest option of sitting around doing nothing.
The reasons soon became clear. When sitting quietly in a corner while the rest of the class was handling knives and raw flesh, the teacher was naturally predisposed to govern over those kids more than us apparently-shy-and-squeamish-to-boot boys. Being at an all-boys school, the option of scaring the girls was notably absent.
With the teacher's attention turned away, the opportunity for an entire 40-minute lesson of improvised rubber-band artillery, alternated with bouts of silently and nonchalantly pretending to read textbooks, was one not to be passed up by any kid who didn't give a toss what a heart looked like on the inside.
Being the impressionable sort, I decided not to opt out until I saw a couple of the more reputable kids were moving off to the corner of the room. I decided to follow, wondering why they chose to forgo an opportunity for macho displays of masculinity for the relatively modest option of sitting around doing nothing.
The reasons soon became clear. When sitting quietly in a corner while the rest of the class was handling knives and raw flesh, the teacher was naturally predisposed to govern over those kids more than us apparently-shy-and-squeamish-to-boot boys. Being at an all-boys school, the option of scaring the girls was notably absent.
With the teacher's attention turned away, the opportunity for an entire 40-minute lesson of improvised rubber-band artillery, alternated with bouts of silently and nonchalantly pretending to read textbooks, was one not to be passed up by any kid who didn't give a toss what a heart looked like on the inside.
A favourable pastime of those fortunate enough to have an English teacher who is also their form tutor and who lacks the gumption to avoid leaving the class register, along with tomorrow's test, unattended in the classroom over lunch.
English was my best subject.
English was my best subject.
The conterpart to this pastime was the last-to-stand-up, of course, by which you tried to spend as long as possible putting your books in your bag before rising to leave. It only really worked when the teacher was staying in the room and waiting for another class, because otherwise the teacher would wander off indifferently.