F+ You!

You’ll always remember that one teacher who made you what you are today.

They took you on: an underprivileged inner city kid from an impoverished school district. And despite the hardships you faced within your broken home and with an ill-timed pregnancy, that very teacher encouraged you to sing and write and study and challenge the fate to which all believed you were condemned. Wait, no, that's the plot for Dangerous Minds and I distinctly remember Michelle Pfeiffer not being my Home Economics teacher. But Mr. Hirschbottom most certainly was! He taught me to braid my hair real good and make brownies and drive cars that hump the ground. Too bad he eventually ended up completely bald and on Celebrity Fit Club, ultimately retiring from life’s passions. I took ADVANCED CORNROWS 2 my junior year and even though I felt at the time like I deserved a better grade, I only managed to earn a B+. That was a particularly humbling moment, but he recognized the same fire within him, in me. From there on he rode me hard and never let me get away with a half-assed effort. I’ve since forgotten how to make even a simple friendship bracelet, but many a life lesson I learned in that semester long class.

Okay, maybe Mr. Hirschbottom was really Coolio. If you didn't get it, please, go to youtube and just watch videos of adorable kittens; this blog is clearly not intended for you. Your mom may stay. My mom: I know you didn't get any of that last paragraph so you will have to leave. You're pretty.

I’m not going to lie, I was a pretty smart kid. My parents had me tested a whole bunch when I was in elementary school in desperate hopes of finding out I was the next Jesus, or Bobby Fischer (I have no idea how to play chess and always liked to move the horsemen (they’re on horses so I think that’s what they’re supposed to be called…?) because they’re cool looking like those Pepperidge Farms cookies). I must have drowned my brain in Juicy Juice and Fruit Roll-Ups because my IQ exams clearly stated I would not turn out to have a strong foothold in the world of academics. You may refer to my 10^th grade report card for further evidence that my brain could not process fairly simple concepts such as - math. I do know that normal = plain. Actually, vanilla is so delicious. Um, duh, treats, duh. Let’s go to the mall! I did graduate from high school, nominated by my peers as ‘Future Picasso’. That’s taken me very far. I'm so glad I earned their encouragement and respect. Kill meeeee.

Even though I ended up being normal (curse you genetic smarts skipping my generation, coupled with an influx of very distracting video games and cartoons and pizza rolls), I had a great deal of support and encouragement by my similarly duped teachers during my formative years (thank you, Montessori school, for helping me build up my investigative skills – I’m what some call a ‘prober’).

From time to time, probably more often than I realize, I fondly look back at one teacher, one special fucking teacher who left on me an imprint the size of her colossal ass and encouraged me to be something no other teacher in my life had encouraged me to be up until that point: A huge asshole.

Thank you, my 6th grade teacher, Ms. Patti Cisewski (chih-SEWH-skeeeeeeeee / alternate pronounciation: KUH-uhnt) I hope my two followers find you on the internet and spam the fuck out of your school district inbox. We'll help you get a penile implant on your face.
I I I I I I I I I hate you.

Wildebeests, fortunately, cannot unite in 47 of the 50 United States, Minnesota included. So she was single at the time she taught my class. She had a hideous little wildebeest, troll child named Michaela Cisewski (amazing, my spell check recognizes ‘Michaela’ as a real word / name – if you are named Michaela, Monica or Desiree, your life is guaranteed to be total dogshit mostly due to the fact that the people who raised you gave you your crappy ass name. And you run around like a chicken with your head cut off, or a chickenhead (more likely), on the outskirts of an already miserable suburb (Cottage Grove, MN) whose major exports are meth, high school dropouts, and meth babies. I know what you’re thinking: rent must be cheap!

Ms. Cisewski was a notoriously evil, 4-legged teaching abomination. I was on vacation in Florida the summer before 6^th grade and during that time the class rosters were announced to students and their parents. My mom had to call me with the bad news. I freaked out at my Tia Angelita’s house on one of her plastic covered sofas. Tia doesn’t speak a drop of English so she couldn’t figure out what was going on nor console me. If I remember correctly, the best she could do was serve me some fried steak and whole avocadoes swimming in olive oil and salt...and the ensuing heart failure brought me a sense of calm. But THEN, my mom tried to make it better by telling me my best friend Darcy was in the class, too. No amount of Darcy or Mickey Mouse was going to make this better.

Her breath was a combination of cigarettes, black coffee, halitosis aaaaand spoiled milk. And I’m sure she kept her mouth closed all day so that shit would stew in there so that she could literally reek havoc (pun master moment, muthafucka) on the unlucky soul called to her desk for a session of downwind scolding. Oftentimes me! Lucky me! I wish – I WISH – I would have had the balls to offer her a cert or a stem of fresh basil.

When we continue F+ You! parte deux, I’ll explore the deeper reasons behind my hatred for Ms. Cisewski and how I got that bitch real good. But then she got me real good. But then life got her real good because it looks like someone dumped a vat of syphilis on her head.