One day, Bailey was sitting in her metaphysics class, twiddling her thumbs as she daydreamed about all the fun things she wanted to do this weekend.
“Excuse me, Bailey! Pay attention!” hollered Bailey’s teacher, Mrs. Frump.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Frump,” Bailey told her teacher before turning her attention back to the chalkboard that was filled with Mrs. Frump’s scrawly handwriting.
Mrs. Frump then adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses and reverted her attention back to lecturing her class filled with illiterate and insubordinate children.
“Do you see that leaf outside?” a classmate said to Bailey.
“You mean on the tree?” Bailey asked the classmate.
“Um, of course,” Bailey said hesitantly.
“I like trees,” the classmate said before looking back at Mrs. Frump.
“I want to integrate all of you into our social programs,” Mrs. Frump continued, “but to do that we first have to cross the medium threshold.”
A student then raised their hand.
“What now, Jerry?” Mrs. Frump beamed.
“What’s a medium threshold?”
Mrs. Frump sighed and gazed out the window. Being from a different part of the country than her students, her dialectical patterns were often hard to understand, especially when she began talking about the lima beans and cacti in the southern United States.
“Jerry, a medium threshold is something I’ve already discussed,” Mrs. Frump then said.
“But Mrs. Frump,” began Bailey, “a medium threshold sounds like a made-up term.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Frump questioned.
“What I mean Mrs. Frump is that you’re talking extremely loose and that it’s very difficult for most of us to understand what you’re talking about.”
“Are you saying you all lack the imaginative capacity to read between the lines, to interpret intangible thoughts?” Mrs. Frump then said defensively, moving backward and resting her suddenly sweaty palms on her desk.
“Mrs. Frump,” said Bailey. “My critique of your teaching patterns in not meant to be personal. I’m merely saying that we’re all just trying to get better by being in your class. No one is here to make your day worse, but you need to teach material that we can relate to.”
Now embarrassed, and with cheeks as red as a ripe tomato, Mrs. Frump made an abortive effort to remove herself from the classroom.
Mrs. Frump ran toward the door, opened it, and then turned to face the class one more time.
“I just want you all to know!” she screamed, “that sometimes I just have bad days, okay?”
Many of the students laughed at Mrs. Frump and began whispering to each other in foreign languages.
Mrs. Frump ran out the door.
Five minutes later, she came back with the principal.
“What happened here?” the principal asked the students.
“Mrs. Frump was talking loose,” Bailey told the principal.
“More loose than an unfastened screw on a bicycle?” the principal asked Bailey.
“Sir, Mrs. Frump was talking more loose than a pair of pants without a belt,” Bailey said.
“Oh my god,” murmured the principal, who then turned to Mrs. Frump.
“Mrs. Frump, come with me,” he instructed his shortest-tenured teacher.
“Make me,” Mrs. Frump said defiantly.
The principal laughed and picked up the petite Mrs. Frump with one arm, then hauled her out of the classroom.
“You’ll pay for this, children! Mark my words! I’m going to give you all so much homework, you’ll wish I was never your teacher,” yelled Mrs. Frump as she was carried out the door.
Once the principal shut the door, all the children looked at each other, then began laughing hysterically.
Support Quentin Super today for $13.95 by purchasing his first novel, The Long Road North, here
Quentin Super is also a ghostwriter. Are you curious about what exactly a ghostwriter does? Click here to find out more information, then watch this 4-minute video for even more information
Leave a Reply