At Last! Universal Agreement!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" on this momentous afternoon ... we have found something upon which every one of our readers will agree upon totally!
Middle School sucks.
If you disagree, I apologize for saying this, but you're a bonehead.
As you can see, I've loaded a picture of the French forces storming the Bastille onto this blog entry. Because I've never seen a Middle School that didn't deserve being stormed by bloodthirsty French peasants bent upon liberating the poor oppressed inmates!
Don't get me wrong. I'm not examining a Middle School with a one-sided perspective. As I see it, here's what's wrong with Middle School:
1. the students
2. the teachers
3. the administrators
4. (okay, I do single this group out for special hatred) the secretaries
To sum it up in one sentence: Middle School is somewhere that no one wants to be except the principal. And he or she is looking at the "Help Wanted" ads every day for a high school opening.
Do you remember Middle School? I got beaten up by a gang of girls because one of them said I looked at her boyfriend with lust in my heart. (That's not exactly how she put it, but this is a family values blog.) As I recalled it, I simply looked at the guy the way you'd look at a stop sign when you were making a right turn at the end of a street.
Do you remember zits? I got one right on top of my nose that looked like Mont Blanc (keeping with la theme francaise). I popped it. It erupted. I have a scar to this day.
Do you remember Middle School? My daughter The Spare has a teacher who's probably vying for tenure. The Spare has so much homework in this one class that it probably surpasses the entire homework load that most high schoolers carry home at the end of a day. One of her assignments this week was to define five words with the root ver (truth). So here's an 8th grader who's expected to know what "verisimilitude" means. Test next Friday.
You know who's eternally happy to be in Middle School forever? The cockroaches in the kitchen. But even they become wretched in the summertime when they have to subsist on textbook paste and overlooked zit pus.
My personal Bastille Day from Middle School was June 8, 1973. Isn't it remarkable that I can remember the exact day? Not really. I declared it a holy day at midnight on June 8, 1973 and have done something special on June 8 every single year since that time.
This spring my daughter The Heir will graduate from high school. My daughter The Spare will graduate from Middle School. I doggone well know which party should be the biggest, most expensive, and rowdiest. But when you've gone through Middle School three times (self, Heir, Spare), you can't help but stage a humongous bash for the end of Middle School for ever and ever.
You see, I've made a personal vow not to live to see my grandchildren enter Middle School. Awful, yes, but enough is enough.
I'll let the Great God Bumba have the final say on Middle School.
MIDDLE SCHOOL FREE IN FIVE MONTHS, SEVENTEEN DAYS, AND TWENTY-THREE HOURS