Category Archives: School

My Attempt At Poetry

As a child, they could not keep me from the playground
The basketball court sprinkled with 12-year-olds
Like athletic jimmies on a cupcake field

I am dirt crawling up your nose
Taking your nostrils hostage as the pitch comes
I am fouls ‘til midnight
No bunting
Leading no steal
No call back no recalls

I am seven outfielders, five infielders, a catcher and a pitcher

I am Nate Boit, the first kid to kick a homerun over the far fence
The ball crash landing on the pavement
Erupting of cheers from stunned opponents

I am stolen chalk from the blackboard to draw bases
The dust powdering our guilty fingerprints

I am a pitcher
Not a belly itcher
A batter
Not a broken ladder
Bases juiced with two outs
A dirty arm wiping sweat from a firm and determined brow

Panting chests harmonize around the bases
Blood pumping like its forcing a triple

I am a ground rule double off the basketball hoop
A foul ball over the slides

I am eyes darting around the pavement
Searching for gaping opportunity
A bouncing curveball skipping off the pavement like a rubber stone
A planted foot and a snapped knee
Muscles screaming
I am a high fly to center field

I am the clap of sneakers against tar
The frantic tracing of a falling meteor
I am a ball off the wall

I am a third base coach forgetting his lunch
Spinning his arms at his classmates
I am a long throw from center field
I am a force of adrenaline rounding second
A relay from deep center
Momentum circling third
A laser to the catcher

I am a play at the plate

I am out
No safe
No out

I am a long heated argument
Cursing and name calling

I am the bell to end recess
Sweaty children with grins dominating their face
I am friendships
I am memories

I am kickball

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It’s Not You, It’s Me.

It’s not you, it’s me. Just kidding, it’s you. You’ve been holding me back. I have inspirations, I have dreams! There are so many insights that I can’t achieve with you in my life—like having sex with all the Playboy Bunnies. It’s not that you’re holding me back; it’s that with you present in my life I can’t do anything. It’ll be easier with out you. I have to do things on my own. Like fuck mad bitches.

I think we should see other people. Like your smoking hot sister. I can see that she’s been eyeing me from across the dinner table. And every time we had movie night she would always want to sit next to me on the love seat. The love seat. We’re friends on Facebook, so we’re basically married. Hahaha, just kidding. But seriously, give her my number.

I need some space. Space without, that is. You follow me everywhere. You always want to hold me hand and you’re always kissing my cheek. It’s like we’re dating or something, I mean grow UP! Remember that time you came into the bathroom with me, and everyone started screaming? Oh, that was me following you? Whatever, I need space.

Don’t do that to me. You know I hate it when you cry. Not because it guilts me, but because it’s all messy and gross. What is this, Extreme Makeover Home Edition? Seriously, stop crying, it’s making us look bad. We’re in line for prom tickets, you can’t just start making a scene. No seriously, stop crying, you’re being a little bitch. Just know that I love you. Actually no, I don’t love you; that’s why we’re breaking up. In fact, is it possible to take back all the times I’ve said “I love you”? At least give me half of them back.

How about this, if we break up now I’ll let you keep the kid. I don’t want to wait another three months and have to deal with the birth. Ew talk about gross, even the thought of it makes me sick. Besides, that’s March Madness and Syracuse is the favorite. Those hospital televisions never get cable.

Okay listen, I don’t even have the money for these tickets. Can you spot me? I’ll pay you back when I go to your house to take back all my stuff. I’ll bring a box of your stuff too. Oh, but I should warn you, I lost those CDs you gave me, and I broke that camera you let me take to Europe. It’s alright, I’ll buy you a new one. Just kidding, I won’t.

I’m sorry it had to end like this. Actually, no I’m not, there’s this wicked dope girl in my Psychology class who wants me and I want to get with her as soon as possible. ASAP, you know what I mean? Hahahaha! Jesus, someone’s in a pissy mood. I already apologized! Oh wait, no I didn’t. Anyway, we’re breaking up. It’s not you, it’s me. Just kidding, it’s you.

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Boony, The Suspended Captain

I have very important news for you. It’s a little outdated, because when it comes to writing I delay deadlines like a Barry Bonds steroid trial, but it is very funny news that only calculates into my hilarious life. But first, like all stories, the background:

A few months ago, my school’s Varsity Soccer Team had a car wash to support funding towards our program. And like all car washes in my town, it is custom for the team washing cars to dress in—for lack of a better word—underwear. We wore spandex Under Armuor as pants, and took our shirts off as we paraded up and down Main Street with holding signs. We would yell “sexy car wash” and point at dirty cars. If anything, we took the same “Sex Sells” mentality used in alcohol, cigarette, and perfume commercials and brought it to a community scale. It was tradition in my town for every team to do it. The football team does it, the lacrosse team does it, and even the slutty cheerleaders do it.

Well, unfortunately, it was OUR carwash that got all the attention, and there were dozens of emails sent into the school complaining about our lack of clothing. There was even an article written in the town newspaper about our shenanigans. The next day at school, the athletic director pulled me and the other captains into his office and asked that we write an apology letter in response to all the criticism. So I did. This was the letter:

“Dear citizens of Arlington,

Saturday the 20th of September, the Arlington Boys Varsity Soccer had a car wash outside of the high school. Unfortunately, what we thought was fun and games turned out to be very offensive. Children of all ages saw us strutting around in our sports shorts, and with an event such as Town Day happening a block away, we didn’t consider the consequences of such immature humor. Kids our age have been having high school carwashes to support our teams, and what we thought was the norm turned out to be disastrous.

Obviously we assumed that people would take things lightly, but in retrospect we see that being in public with a large population is not the proper place to be so exposed. No one thought of the repercussions of acting the way we did. Many people enjoyed the fun, but there were many more that deemed our actions to be juvenile and inappropriate, and for that we apologize. Years to come, our behavior will certainly be fitting and we hope not to scare you away from something we enjoy doing and will be doing again.

Boys Varsity soccer invites you to come and watch us play to prove to you that we are not a bunch of hooligans who dance around half-naked in hopes of getting car wash sales. All of us realize that what we did was unintentionally offensive and we promise you it will not happen again. Little children should not have been exposed to what they saw, and many of the emails the school received were from concerned parents hoping to put a stop before things got too inapt in the future. Like the mature kids we are we sincerely express regret for what we did and thank you for helping us fix our mistakes.

So as the captains of the varsity soccer team, I hope you accept this apology. Arlington is the town we love and we are proud to represent our pride through a sport we love, and we would never mean to offend you. Clearly we will act more mature next time we have a fund raiser, and we hope we didn’t scare you off. Kindly accept this apology.

—Sincerely, Boony and the entire Boys Varsity Soccer Team”

The letter seems good right? It thoroughly apologizes throughout the entire letter, and it even encourages people to look past the car wash event and see us play soccer. The athletic director loved it, and I even got it published in the paper as a response to the angry editorial. The publisher I sent it to even said, “I’m sure this wasn’t an easy letter to write, and I commend you for doing so.” You like it right?

Okay good. Now, look at the same letter, only write down the first letter of every sentence. I highlighted them for you:

“Dear citizens of Arlington,

Saturday the 20th of September, the Arlington Boys Varsity Soccer had a car wash outside of the high school. Unfortunately, what we thought was fun and games turned out to be very offensive. Children of all ages saw us strutting around in our sports shorts, and with an event such as Town Day happening a block away, we didn’t consider the consequences of such immature humor. Kids our age have been having high school carwashes to support our teams, and what we thought was the norm turned out to be disastrous.

Obviously we assumed that people would take things lightly, but in retrospect we see that being in public with a large population is not the proper place to be so exposed. No one thought of the repercussions of acting the way we did. Many people enjoyed the fun, but there were many more that deemed our actions to be juvenile and inappropriate, and for that we apologize. Years to come, our behavior will certainly be fitting and we hope not to scare you away from something we enjoy doing and will be doing again.

Boys Varsity soccer invites you to come and watch us play to prove to you that we are not a bunch of hooligans who dance around half-naked in hopes of getting car wash sales. All of us realize that what we did was unintentionally offensive and we promise you it will not happen again. Little children should not have been exposed to what they saw, and many of the emails the school received were from concerned parents hoping to put a stop before things got too inapt in the future. Like the mature kids we are we sincerely express regret for what we did and thank you for helping us fix our mistakes.

So as the captains of the varsity soccer team, I hope you accept this apology. Arlington is the town we love and we are proud to represent our pride through a sport we love, and we would never mean to offend you. Clearly we will act more mature next time we have a fund raiser, and we hope we didn’t scare you off. Kindly accept this apology.

—Sincerely, Boony and the entire Boys Varsity Soccer Team”

That’s right.  My apology letter has a secret message that spells out SUCK ON MY BALL SACK.  I know, it’s funny. It’s straight up hilarious. It is literary genius. Apparently, it’s illegal. When the letter got published in the paper, I told my teammates. They told people, who told people. In time, the entire school knew, and then teachers knew, and then my coach knew. As discipline, I became the only captain in Arlington Varsity Soccer History to have his captainship “indefinitely suspended”. It was given to my friend Mike, who deserved it, but didn’t want to accept it as a substitute.

I didn’t really fight the issue; there were only two weeks left in the season and I figured that I deserved it. All that is proven by this situation is that if you do something amazing that deserves to be bragged about, wait a little bit before telling everyone about it. Part of me wishes I never did it, or changed the hidden message to something less immature; but the other half thinks that this proves my creative writing style and I am happy to show people what I am capable of. The days after the letter hit the school and people found out that a goofy stunt like that lost my captainship, I was approached by dozens in the hall praising me for such a cool act. I had stuck it to the man. I had slipped one past authorities. I had suspended my captainship for comedy.

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Everyone Saw You Miss That Shot

Everyone saw you miss that shot. You weren’t even close. We all stared as you crinkled up the piece of paper, walked across the room, and embarrassed yourself with that jumper. You could have simply placed it in, or even dunked it like Vince Carter. But instead you decided to be a hero. A hero who misses shots.

Everyone saw you miss that shot. It’s ironic that you’re wearing Air Jordans. Don’t you play basketball? You made JV as a freshman and you can’t even sink a piece of garbage? There was no shot clock. There was no double coverage. Just you, a tile floor, and a missed shot.

Everyone saw you miss that shot. I understand you’re not Ray Allen. You don’t have to be. Should I have called a pick? Were you expecting an ally-oop? Sure, you can pretend that you were aiming for the recycling bin, but we all know you weren’t. You still missed the shot. You can probably fit two basketballs in that trashcan. I’ve seen hundreds of kids sink fade-aways before. But not you, you can’t even hit a jumper six feet away. Maybe next time inflate those Pumps. Maybe then you won’t miss that shot.

Everyone saw you miss that shot. Now you have to take the walk of shame to the trashcan to pick up your failure as the whole class looks on. Are you considering redemption? You can’t even recover from a missed shot like that. Don’t bother taking another one, we’ll just be hoping you fail again. It serves you right for thinking you’re Magic Johnson. He had AIDS. Do you have AIDS? No. All you have is a case of missing shots.

Everyone saw you miss that shot. Never take a shot again. I’m serious. We’re all in math class, not a halftime show at the Wizard’s game. Why are you even doing it? You’ll never become famous, you don’t have a shot. And even if you did have a shot, you’d most likely miss it.

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In The Defense Of My Son . . .

Dear Superintendent Davidson,

I would like to personally apologize for my son’s actions that unfolded last Thursday. My wife and I agree that his exploits were out of line and we will personally make sure he suffers the severest of consequences. I would, however, like to defend Anthony in his deeds, because although they were unacceptable and offensive, I feel that the school did not properly handle the situation.

For the months leading up to the incident with Anthony, he had been ruthlessly bullied by Jacob. On multiple occasions Anthony approached me with problems concerning Jacob and it was only a matter of time before it slipped out of hand. The “Peer Mediation” offered at your school only adds to the humiliation of the trouble. Anthony came home from school one day with a black eye and fat lip, claiming that Jacob had beaten him up after a Peer Mediation meeting.

Also, I feel that the no-knives policy at the school is foolish and outdated. In a Britain-like society in which no one is allowed weapons (whether they are for hunting, working, or essential to one’s way of life), the one rebel with the knife has an overly offensive advantage over those who are forced to follow the rule. I would also like to add that although Anthony had four or five knives on him at the time of arrest, Jacob also had one.

Similarly, concerning the topic of weapons, I believe in the Constitution it states that American citizens own the “right to bear arms.” And since I’m yet to see a man with two hairy forearms and razor-sharp claws, I’m assuming that this right allows us to carry guns. So I don’t personally see what was such a big deal about Anthony having a pistol on him at the time of apprehension. He didn’t kill anyone, and with today’s surgical technology bullets can be detected and removed in minutes. If it makes the situation any better I will personally pay for the four broken windows, two replaced doors, and Ms. Widrow’s facial reconstruction.

Lastly, I feel that unless the penalties on my son are nullified, I will be forced to press charges against Officer Rodriguez. His actions seemed very unauthorized and unorthodox. I realize that when a blood-thirsty felon is carrying a deadly weapon officers are allowed to use any means necessary, but my son is neither a felon nor blood-thirsty. This is, of course, ignoring the part where Anthony drank some of Ms. Widrow’s blood and screamed “I’m a blood-thirst felon.” Officer Rodriguez made no attempt to talk Anthony down, nor did he seem to follow any of the safety protocol taught at the police academy. Also, Officer Rodriguez failed to realize that Jacob was wielding a knife and therefore was also a threat to people’s safety, regardless of his being the victim at gunpoint. Whether you want to point the blame on Officer Rodriguez or the New York police academy, I would still like to make my discontent clear.

Once again, I apologize for my son Anthony’s actions last Thursday, and hope that he will be able to join the education system once again next year without any further problems.

Sincerely, Ronald Haverly.

P.S.- Anthony is really looking forward to 4th grade.

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Lack Of Posts Post

Due to my crazy schedule and my sudden development of a “life,” you may have noticed that I’ve been posting less and less and less. It’s not because I don’t enjoy writing (I still chose to write during class instead of taking notes), but because I have so much other important shit to do (working, coaching, masturbating, etc.), to which writing comes after. In order to explain to you why I don’t have time to write anymore, I have—ironically—written an entire post about it.

1. My work. Believe it or not, I enjoy my work. I have friends who work with me and I meet new people every day and get to joke with complete strangers before never seeing them again. One time (at band camp . . .) I met this guy who wanted to know if our New England clam chowder was any good. Stunned that he had never tried clam chowder, I asked him where he was from, and he replied “D.C.” You know when you hear one thing and your mind immediately goes crazy and makes connections? Well this is the thought process I went through:

Trying to sound smart, I fired back “State?” only to realize that I had just asked if Washington D.C. was a state. Embarrassed, I joked with the guy about my IQ of 4 and gave the guy his food. Luckily, I’ll never see him again.

Because I enjoy my work, I don’t mind working a lot of hours. I would roughly 25 hours a week, which is a fair amount of time for a 16-year-old kid. Money-wise, I make bank, and it also prevents me from becoming mind-numbingly bored at my house. Before I worked, I would go straight home from school, sit on the couch, and watch TV until 7:30 when I would eat dinner, and then watch more shows until bed. Now, I come home from school, get ready, and work until 10:30. When I get home I’m far too exhausted to even think about comedy.

2. My memory. Part of writing and performing comedy is being able to remember long subjects and punch lines without the assistance of anyone. This is also true for thinking up topics to write about. At one point I carried around a notebook in which I would write down every funny thing I thought of, but that got really annoying when I filled up an entire notebook and then it got wet and all my work was lost. After that, I tried remembering stuff, but that was very difficult because I have the memory of a retarded 80-year-old. I would think of something funny while at school, forget it by the time I got to my computer, and then remember it the next day at work. This seriously crippled my writing style. Unable to remember an on-going theme or joke, I started writing my posts in one sitting instead of multiple sessions, and my work became smaller. Also, writing posts in one sitting requires free time, and although I still have 163 hours off work, most of my time—and memory—is dedicated to my life-engulfing girlfriend. Hmm, I wonder what the next number on the list is going to be about . . .

3. My life-engulfing girlfriend. As many of you know, once you get a girlfriend you are forced to become tough and masculine, and apparently writing posts about Pokemon and Tough Guys Wearing Pink doesn’t qualify. To quote one of my best friends, my girlfriend has “changed me,” both emotionally and comedic-ly. Emotionally, I have become more controlled, and instead of doing what every other guy does when a hot girl walks down the hall—stare at her chest without her noticing—I have learned to stare at her chest without her or my girlfriend noticing. It’s a big change, but I think I can handle it.

When I didn’t have a girlfriend, I would spend a good portion of my weekend nights inside with no friends to talk to. Either all my friends would be having a “girls night” or they would all be drinking, but for some reason I would wind up at home with no plans. And when caged in the uneventful constraints of your house, you start to find ways to ventilate your boredom. Some people watch TV, others listen to music, and some viciously masturbate to late-night Girls Gone Wild commercials. Whatever the way of liberating (swing and a miss) your boredom, it’s what works and what feels good. Me? I would write stuff. I would write whatever. Sometimes I would be listening to a song and decide to write a parody of it. To this day I have over a dozen parody songs written, and I would gladly make a CD that would turn me into the next Weird Al Yankovic; the only problem is that I can’t sing, which, apparently, is a major part of making a song.

But six months ago, I entered this thing called a “relationship” in which I have “responsibilities” and “commitments.” And although there are laborious chores that I have to follow (walking her home, making her happy, remembering her birthday, blah blah blah), it is overall worth it. The good news is that I always have plans on a Saturday night, but the bad news is that I’m too busy hanging with her to write superior posts. To show you how much more important my girlfriend is to me, I have created a math-like equation of my priorities:

4. My viewers. Turns out that my website isn’t just a small thing for me and my friends anymore. When I first started posting, I got probably 100 views a week on this site, and they were all from kids younger than me who laughed at words like “duty” and “lubrication.” I used this to my advantage and posted about whatever I wanted, namely, Sex Drugs and Rock & Roll. Now, my viewers include my 7th grade History teacher, my girlfriend’s militant father, both my parents, and a teacher at my high school. Although I don’t think that my comedy is intended for these people, I am flattered that they would take time out of their busy schedule. Unfortunately, this also restricts my writing to broad subjects that don’t zoom in on my life. Since I live life with a “Do or Die,” “All or Nothing” attitude, my stories are both inappropriate and unacceptable in the eyes of these people, some of whom have the power to end my life metaphorically and literally. Without readers and censors like this, my writing would be comparable to Tucker Max, but since I have to dance around these people, my posts lowered to the inappropriateness of a touchdown celebration (which, thanks to T.O. have become oddly obscene).

I have made a promise to myself, as well as you loyal readers, to continue posting, and I promise that I will get back up to a post a week. Since I am going to college for journalism, writing all the time can only benefit me. In 6 years you’ll probably read an article by me in Rolling Stone talking about something goofy like abortion or politics, and you’ll know that it was this website where it all started. You can say to yourself “I knew that kid before he was a big shot.” And although this site has started my writing, I hope to further my education at a college. Preferably D.C. State.

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How The Mascot Plays A Major Role In Your College Selection

Nearing the end of my junior year I have started looking at colleges. And since my GPA is in the negative numbers, my standards are pretty low. I’m certainly not going to an Ivy League School, but I’ve also avoided drugs long enough to stay out of community college.

When considering what college you want to go to, there are numerous things you want to consider: Does the college support your major? What is the size of the school? What are the surrounding towns? How many kids apply and are accepted every year? What division are they for sports? What is the teacher/student ration? What much is tuition? Could you in there with your current GPA? How will your SAT scores affect your chances?

I have most of my decisions down: I want a school of 4,000-8,000 students surrounded by a large town that offers majors in communications and journalism. The school should be Division III for sports and demand an average 3.0 GPA. With those things considered, I’m looking at Keene State College in New Hampshire, and I took a tour there a month ago.

When I got to Keene, we all sat in this room and the baseball coach gave us an overview of the school’s offerings, criteria, and surroundings. He informed us that the Keene mascot is an owl (because when envisioning a vicious and relentlessly killing animal, you immediately focus on nocturnal birds) and that the town surrounding the college was where the movie Jumanji was filmed. The coach then went into complicated school terms like an integrated curriculum and a four-point system, so I zoned out and let my dad ask questions.

One thing I liked about the coach was that he referred to everything as an “entirely different animal.” Instead of simply saying “I’ll talk about that later” or “that’s another story,” he would always say “that’s an entirely different animal”:

Parent– How would internships help your life after college, does it allow you to get a foot in the door or is it simply necessary to gain credits?

Coach– Some classes, specifically education classes, demand internships as you reach the later semesters. I’ve heard of communication majors doing brief summer internships which have transformed into their career, but that’s an entirely different animal.

After watching the coach talk for a while I began to think a question in which this catch-phrase in the answer would actually work:

Parent– Are students allowed to bring pets into their dorms?

Coach– There have been students who have had a goldfish and a hamster in their dorms. My junior year I had a friend who bought a housecat for his suite, but that’s an entirely different animal.

The coach let us go and three girls toured us around the college campus. The tour mainly consisted of parents asking questions relating to when they went to college (“Where would students put their record players?”) while the kids stand around and awkwardly eye one another. The girls showed us around the campus where every building had an eerie relation to the team mascot. There was the “Night Owl” café; the “Owl’s Nest” convenience store; and the “Hoot And Scoot,” the Keene equivalent to fast-food. There stores were nice, but my favorite restaurant was the campus barbeque wing restaurant, Hooters. (swing and miss)

Choose a team mascot is a very serious issue on college campuses. Every year students go to college considering the location, population, and tuition, but never the mascot. The result? They major in political science at an Ivy League school, but play baseball for the “Madison University Belly Button Rings.”

When selecting a mascot, the safest category to choose from is animals, specifically predators. Lions, tigers, bear (oh my!) and cougars are all mascots that inject fear and terror into their opponents. Similarly, big aggressive birds are intimidating. Eagles, hawks, falcons, etc. all work, specifically if your Sunday night game is against the Harrison College Field Mice.

A bad category for mascot selection is anything to do with people. The Indians, Warriors, Minute Men, and Pirates are all embarrassing to your campus. No one wants to play the California University Foot Soldiers, and the South Trent Trojans are just degrading. The image of an Indian is even worse because the Indians started out with all of North America and would up defending plantations in Ohio. Trojan in a type of condom, and the Minute Men have trouble pleasing the ladies. (swing and a miss) The only exception is to name your team the Gladiators, but that only works if your home field looks like the coliseum and your mascot is Russell Crowe .

Keene State was a very nice college. It had exactly what I wanted: a communications major, a psychology minor, and hundreds of beautiful women. With the ability to communicate to women and read their minds, I’d be able to get dozens of attractive women. I’d tell you what I’d do with those girls, but that’s an entirely different animal.

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