I am over the moon about this post! I FINALLY convinced my son to finish this post because I thought it was HILARIOUS. He had a middle school teacher that he described on more than one occasion with the personality of a wet poodle. Here is his brief take on Mrs. Smith. Enjoy!
This is about my English teacher Mrs. Smith. Anyone under the age of 13 and above the age of 10 in the district knows and despises Mrs. Smith. You’re probably thinking, this kid is just a 12 year old 6th grader, he probably hates all his teachers. But I tell you, this is special.
She looks like the perfect teacher, mid thirties with three kids. But I warn you, you are seeing a mask. I once got up to ask her a question and she gives me the “look”; the “look” is a Mrs. Smith trademark. She slightly tilts her head and just stares at you and with a sigh of a 50 year old man with depression and asks, “what!?”. Now I can feel my blood boiling and heart pumping I ask, “May I use the restroom?” She looks at me like I just asked if I could lick the surface of her desk. While signing, she just sits there head tilted and stares into my soul. She’ll go so deep into your soul, she’ll find your darkest places and bring them out all by a 30 second stare.
On the way to the bathroom I consider dropping out and becoming a mail carrier or a burger flipper. The absolute worst thing about Mrs. Smith is the website. The website is a website that Mrs. Smith created which has what we did each day in class and what’s to come the next. This sounds great in all but this backfires when you’re sick. I was once sick with the flu for a straight 4 days and I knew coming back I would have loads of homework. It was awful. Anyway, I walk into Mrs. Smith’s class and ask my classmate next to me what we are doing. As he explains I hear a loud “Anything you’d like to share!?” from Mrs. Smith.
‘Heck yeah I want to share something, you’re the reason I’m slowly becoming an empty shell, a thoughtless robot.’
Instead I say, “Just asking what we are doing” with a slight smile to soften the mood. She looks at me like I had just insulted her own mother and says, “Why isn’t this done?” I respond, “because I’ve been sick.”
“Everything we did is on the website.” She responds.
“I’m not checking the website while I’m half on my death bed.” I say.
This answer is obviously unacceptable as she proceeds to look at me with great disappointment, like her own son had committed murder.