Why I Hate Summer School

I mentioned earlier about hating summer school, with all the small, high-pitched spawn running around squealing.

I forgot one of the yearly events I hate most: the ritual ironic torture of whatever animal they dredge up from the pond.

Last year, a boy brought in a toad. A tiny toad. The little baby kind that you shouldn't keep because they need to eat and starve to death really fast because they don't have adult fat. But okay, he's a kid, he wouldn't know.

How did the boy bring in the toad?

A) A terrarium set up using plants to mimic the environment. Yeah, toads don't care much when there's no food, but it shows effort.

B) A small container so it could be transported with minimum shaking and personal damage.

C) A huge bucket with a large, round pitted rock about twenty times larger than the toad, which rolls from side to side as the kid brings it in, swinging the container by the handle.

I managed to remove the rock before it crushed the toad and quickly used a manner of persuasion called 'fast, frantic lying mixed with threats' to make him release it at the end of the day. That was then.

This year, the new teacher had elevated incompetence to a new level. The kids caught three fish. One was about four inches long. They plunked the big one in a 4.5 inches long less-than-a-gallon 'goldfish' bowl, and the other ones in a smaller container.

So: This is a huge fish which needs to live in a huge pond to breathe. It does not have a chance of living. This is pointed out. Loudly. And repeatedly. The teacher makes repeated references to 'not wanting the kid to come in and find his fish dead' and not wanting to release it because of that kid.

The big one rolled over on its side and began suffocating, but was transferred to a big plastic bin filled with chlorinated water. By the teacher, who saw nothing wrong with that idea. We rush home, get something to condition the water, rush back. The two little fish are dead when we return. We use an airstone on the big one's 'tank', which is maybe ten gallons. At best. And we put in elodea to help. Not that I think this will really work.

It's dead when we arrive the next day. The teacher removes it before the kids come in, which annoys me. I give a talk in class to the kids on taking care of wild animals. The little boy the teacher didn't want to alarm is one of the few kids who fails to have a nervous or upset expression during my speech (not sad, more like oops-we-made-someone-mad expressions. And it may also perhaps have to do with the fact I keep making analogies about welding them into metal boxes or tying rocks around their necks and throwing them into lakes). Turns out the kid is one of those charming little arguments for abortion. When I finish, he takes the time to make his own statement, just as he was doing when I walked into the class. He says "Fish eat worms."

The fish are dead because the fucking teacher wouldn't put it back because he thought the conscienceless retard would give a damn.

For those of you curious as to where I live, just wait for news about a tragic incident where a large bomb is detonated in a school.