The Student

John Turner sat at his desk slowly drifting into the land of nod when the sudden SMACK of a ruler brought him back to reality.

"Mr. Turner, please share with the rest of the class the answer to the problem," his teacher Mr. Peterson said, annoyed with the lack of interest surrounding him.

"There is no answer. It's impossible," John quickly blurted out. The class erupted in laughter.

"Quiet down now, young Mr. Turner may be on to something."

"It's impossible i tell you. Impossible. Ya know why? Cause Grammy Gram told me so. I sweared it."

Despite young Turner's cherubic tone and horrifically dubious grammar, the classroom laughter suddenly came to a halt. Because everyone knew that old Grammy Turner was a huge bitch.

No one wanted little cry baby Turner to go sobbin' to his Mumu. No thank you. Not with the Halloween disaster still fresh in their minds.

There was no fucking way were those little brats gonna stand up the queen bee of the bitch factory.

Fuck man, you could cut the tension in that room with a rusty butter knife, you know the kind you mother gives you for your first apartment. It's so bullshit. You know the only reason she gave it to you is because she didn't want it. So typical mom. Can you just stay out of my goddamn buisiness.

Boy I tell you, that tension, it was as thick as the locker room stench of a couple hockey hunks getting ready to take a steam bath. But still nothing weird had happened. Even old teach was getting a little hot under the collar, in more ways than one.. But for what?

"Alright kids why don't we finish class out in the courtyard, to get a little fresh air."

The puzzled students have no idea what the fuck has gotten into teach. It's the middle of winter.

Very awkwardly and defiantly one boy stood up. It was very apparent the boy had shit his husky white undy pants, and old teachy teach wasn't gonna be the one to wipe his ass.

"Timmy why don't you go to the nurses office before i call your mother."

"That won't be happening on my watch," said a voice from the far doorway.

Looking up in horror teachy-poo's face went pale as the snows of Kilimanjaro. It was his worst nightmare en persona.

I could see the face of Grandma Turner from his eyes. She was an ugly sack of potatoes. Not literally. But a real beast. Her ta-ta's stretched down below her knees. Softly swinging to the rhythm of the oscillating fan.

"You will let this boy decide for himself. Just as the good lord taught us."

(Should this be continued?)