Chapters: | Previous | Preface | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 |


by David Amerman

To the Waaklesky School District Board:
Please excuse my dear Aunt Sally.
Let me explain.

Here’s what happened: Because my dad thought I showed some sort of aptitude for American history, when course selection time came around at the end of my seventh grade year he decided it would be a magnificent idea to enroll me in the gifted eight grade history class.

Right. All I really remember from seventh grade history class was learning about World War I and, between you and me, I think I would have rather been gassed and contracted trench mouth in France than been forced to sit through another one of Mr. Quimby’s fascinating lessons.

That guy is like a 128-dose box of Unisom from Costco. He could probably euthanize a rabid wolverine by telling it about the wonders of the Roaring 20’s. But, since I did my homework and studied for the tests like a good boy and got an A in history, my dad assumed I was a fucking prodigy and scheduled gifted history for me behind my back.

Cut to the present day, where I am trapped in the bamboo cage that is the Vietnam War segment of this educational inferno called gifted history taught by Lucifer himself: Dr. William Howard Willis, Ph.D. What a pretentious fuck. Do you know he actually makes his students call him that? “Excuse me . . . Dr. William Howard Willis, Ph.D.? Can I have a bathroom pass?”

Please don’t expel anyone if he winds up accidentally falling into a big smelting furnace. The guy’s got it coming. I’d rather cross paths with Ho Chi Minh, squat one out on his famous sandals, and risk getting garroted eight seconds later by a swarm of butt-clown Mongolian Vietcong than sit through another one of that guy’s classes. Sorry if I offended School Board Treasurer Phu, but that’s how I feel about this situation.

Any who, our most recent homework assignment was to turn on the History Channel for a 2-hour Vietnam War special at 7:00. Fortunately for my classmates and I, it was the same “special” that we were shown in class during fourth grade social studies. I came to this realization about two minutes into the program when that memorably obnoxious limey with the distended yellow incisors introduced himself to myself and Aunt Sally, who happened to be half-dozing on the adjacent Barcalounger at the time.

Ecstatic to be relieved of responsibility of sitting through two hours of the History Channel, I tossed Aunt Sally the remote and immediately fled the premises to take part in a large community badminton match. Three hours later, I emerged back on the home-front victorious, sweaty, and fatigued.

After a shower and a swig of orange Listerine, I trudged upstairs to hit the hay; all too unaware of the faint glow being emitted by the living room flat screen.

Dad still had two days left at his business conference, so Aunt Sally had to take my little brother Shannon and me to school again. She was a hell of a lot edgier than she usually is and kept talking about someone named Charlie and how Charlie was planning on ruining every American dream in the world and how Charlie was the ultimate enemy of the planet Earth.

I thought she was yammering on about one of her ex-gigolo friends, so I just let her run her course until we got to school. Once there, Aunt Sally walked with us to drop off Shannon’s sickness excuse form from last week in the office. I’d like to know how that little fucker got eczema on his eyeballs, but that’s another story.

Shannon and I knew, of course, that it was Chinese Culture Day and were looking forward to a day of no classes, endless exhibits of art and history, and free sweet and sour chicken out the wazoo. And then that wazoo would have chicken coming out his wazoo. This was a big deal for us and many of our peers. But Aunt Sally? She had no idea. She took one look at all the Asian people milling around and flipped out.

And not in a good way like if Kirby Puckett came back to life to smile at me and sign my Twins jersey before sinking back into the underground. No. Replace Kirby Puckett with the boogeyman and everything else with kill, kill, and kill, and you have more of an accurate statement.

She basically fastballed the sickness form at Secretary Keaton and darted out the door without saying goodbye.

Shannon and I tried our best to follow our beloved chunky ancestor to see what was up. She was sweating profusely (I’d know that smell anywhere. Smells like those rare wasabi Funyuns they sell in northern Milwaukee) and was easily frightened by every person of Asian descent that got within eyesight.

Suddenly, it hit me: Charlie was code for hostile Vietnamese warriors from the fucking History Channel special she must have watched after I left to go school the weaklings at badminton. But by the time my light bulb flickered on, it was too late. Aunt Sally had had a conniption.

By now, I assume you can fill in the rest of the details. She destroyed every exhibit, insulted/assaulted just about every Asian person of every age she could find, and my apologies once again to Treasurer Phu. I’m happy to hear he’s come out of the coma.

She ruined the Chinese buffet by eating half of the sweet and sour chicken and, as a result, coating the remaining half of the food with a pungent layer of barf. The hope of my family and me (and you, I’m sure) is that she will obey the newly set-down restraining order and never interfere with another attempt at cultural understanding at the Waaklesky Intermediate School.

Trust me. It won’t happen again.

Sincerely yours,
Graham Mackenrow
8th Grade

Chapters: | Previous | Preface | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 |

Comments are closed.