Innocent Abroad

It started off so promising a day—my normal charge was out sick, presumably from eating too many salt and vinegar Pringles and having a massive seizure— and looked to consist of filling out paperwork and sitting on my ass, chatting up one exceptionally hot co-worker. I even got to wear sandals, which is a luxury in my line of work. It should have been a breezy day in the world of SpEd, but God must have a vendetta against me because things went downhill in a very bad way: kids had melt-downs on par with Chernobyl, aides went home sick, chairs were thrown, and suddenly I found myself in charge of the largest and angriest kid in class, the one whom I usually make a special effort to avoid.

As it turns out the sandals were a bit shortsighted because by noon the little fucker had trampled all over them in miniature Doc Martens with the force of any 120-pound infant throwing tantrums over a Tickle-Me Elmo. The afternoon passed in the same way arthroscopic surgery on your urethra might, but eventually it came time to hit the bathroom once more and give the old heave-ho to the kids for the day. I informed the little punk what was going down but he was having none of it; instead he screamed in my face and threw himself on the floor. Patience not being one of my more generous virtues, I felt the blood slowly coming to a boil at my temples as he flailed about, smacking me repeatedly and defying my every attempt to move, motivate, or subdue him.

Snagging a handful of gummi bears from the cabinet, I enticed him to his feet and led him haltingly into the bathroom. After several exhausting minutes I got his pants down and seated him on the toilet, his face scrunching up in anger and disgust but keeping a watchful eye on the bears in my hand. “Just go and they’re yours,” I told him, waving them close to his face, popping a couple orange ones into my mouth for emphasis. As he sat there drooling and moaning I continued to munch, and this may very well have been my downfall.

Now I don’t care what anyone says: the most retarded of retards—The King Of Durrrr Mountain— still knows what the fuck is going on, and knows especially when he’s being screwed out of a treat. And here was dipshit I doing just that, crouched in front of the toilet a mere foot away, trying some highway bribery to get the most intransigent of children to take a simple piss. With a mighty grunt and the energy I don’t expend in the average week, my vindictive little friend got his dick to half mast, leaned back, and unleashed a stream of rank urine so dark that was it damn near orange arcing through the air. I leapt back, narrowly avoiding a full stream to the face, and instead received a streak of liquid revenge that trickled from my chest all the way down my shirt, puddling finally on my white shorts, leaving a small pool of yellow and the faintest smell of Cheerios. As I stood in outrage he let loose one more blast for good measure that caught my leg just above the knee and sent a torrent of piss flowing through my leg hair at random, like water off Jeff Goldblume’s hand in Jurassic Park.

And then the coup de grace: he looked directly at me and laughed as he stood up, pants still around his ankles, reaching for the bears clenched in my shaking fist. Before he could reach them I laughed back, dumping them into the toilet and flushing as he sobbed anger and betrayal all the way to the bus.

I had a good time explaining the “water” stains to my co-workers, who probably had a good laugh at my expense later on. Three showers later and I swear I can still catch the slightest whiff of Cheerios in the afternoon air. This kind of filth just won’t wash off.

But that’s nothing—remind me sometime to tell you how I got shit on my face.

Fuck this job.

Adam

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