He would like to stick his face right up to where he has planted corn and scream, “Why won’t you grow!”
Hah-hah on lead poisoning, he had been thinking.
Will it trigger Armageddon to plant a supermarket yam?
The mf had plenty of opportunity to observe billowing clouds and blue-blue sky because there were no kids performing antics or sulking, and all the grown-ups were standing around dumbstruck by the emptiness.
The mf was still getting used to the single sunbeam glinting off the angelic-looking woman’s short blonde hair and reflecting her calmly cheerful demeanor but not her tactfully invisible angel wings and harp.
I proclaim this current door a huge improvement.
Ghost pumpkin seedlings looked down on the mf from vegetable heaven. They shook their first true leaves and called him names.
Isn’t it funny how the mf, alone among humankind, ignores the answers that are right in front of him.
“I do my best,” he protested. “I try hard.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But you don’t know what you’re doing.”
The first words that come to mind when reporting on the mf and his 7th period’s tofu-and-broccoli stir-fry lesson are: “OH THE JOY.”