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Dear Hateful School Nurse:

Many, many years ago, when I was but a wee blonde tot with a penchant for the Dukes of Hazzard and a mad, crazy love of macaroni and cheese, I suffered an embarrassment on the playground that required a visit to your office.

It began on the swings. Once again, I prepared to amaze the crowd of third graders with my afternoon performance of leaping from the swing at it’s apex, but this time, instead of landing to cheers of applause, I was met with jeering laughter.

It seems my explosive landing had created a split in my pants, thereby affording the crowd ample view of my flowery underpants. Oh, the ridicule! Quickly, I ran inside to tell teacher, who, barely disguising her laughter, sent me directly to you, school nurse.

When I showed you the gaping hole in my pants, fat tears spurting from my eyes, you stood staring without expression. “Please, please, call my mom, I want to go home and change!”

Instead you sized me up, pulled some pants from a box in your office and told me to put them on.

I’m not sure what was more embarrassing that day, having everyone see my flowery underwear, or, having them see me in those pants you made me wear…the bright, plaid, bell bottom pants that were two sizes two big and  smelled like pee.

I hate you school nurse.

Yours truly,

Still Embarrassed

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Dear Painfully-Idiotic Coworker,

I would really like to know exactly how people like you are born. So I could put a nationwide ban on the procedure. Honestly, we’re going to be seniors in high school now, you’d think you could have absorbed a tad more knowledge than you actually have. Does it ever seem like a good idea to throw rocks at dogs? Does it? Because really it’s just going to make them pissed off and (hopefully) claw your eyes out and bite your arm off.

We work at a dog kennel, where there is ALWAYS work to be done. So while I slave away cleaning kennels does it seem the best idea to chat on your cell phone for a half an hour? Really, the more pressing question is: do you like getting bleach sprayed in your face?

And bossing me around when I’ve worked here a year longer than you and happen to have an IQ double yours is probably not a good plan, sweetheart. I didn’t get a 34 on the ACT to have you try and tell me how to give a dog a bath (which, by the way, you do poorly – I didn’t even think that was possible).

And another thing… I don’t think it’s a coincidence that half the dogs here growl at you as you walk past. Just saying, I don’t think it’s the dog that’s the problem and yelling at them to stop is definitely going to help. Oh definitely. Let me bow down to your amazing and ingenious tactics.

I’m Sorry St. Francis,
Laura

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Hey idiot,

What the hell, Mike? It’s not like you’re ever on time either, so shut your crap hole. Your son doesn’t do anything around here either (which is still better than you), so who fucking cares if he’s late? Really… shut… up. You probably have a gazillion price quotes to do, so get out of this room you lazy-ass old fart. Leave the support room… this is where the intelligent people sit.

It’s like the cool bench at school, except you’re so not cool that sitting anywhere on campus is too good for you. Get the hell out of here and do some work or just freaking retire you freaking moron. You really want to know why we’re losing clients? It’s because you’re a moron and you keep lying to them, making promises you can’t keep, insulting them, trying to explain things you can’t, failing to clearly explain things a 2 year old could, rambling on about how you want to change the world but can’t, making prejudice comments, offering them our services for free, and being so nice to the lead programmer here that he has never once felt inclined to listen to a single thing you’ve said.

About 10% of your ideas are good ones at best, but you don’t have the management skills to put their development into action – you own the damn company, for the love of potatoes, just tell your employees what you want them to do. Telling your son to pick up food from McDonald’s on the way because he’s already late is not managing your employees. It is, in fact, making your employee later. Why are you so incompetent?

Go away, and never come back. A vast vacuum of space could fill your seat more appropriately than you do. Frick off.

Richard

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Mr. Brady,Was that you I saw getting ready to pass out (surprise, surprise!) in a bar? It brought back quite a few delightful memories and I’d like to share them with you, as I’m sure you don’t remember –what with your constant drunkenness (how DID you manage so often to be intoxicated around school-aged children without notice? Do Tell.)

I am a lover of English, and I feel like your love of the sauce is the only reasonable explanation for the things you did as my 8th and 9th grade English teacher.

I wonder if your hazy memory might recall the time that you actually dribbled in your pants a little whilst screaming at the top of your lungs– I think because someone had belched under their breath during your recap of the previous night‘s Chicago Bears game. You were so adorably worked up that your scarlet face actually highlighted the broken blood vessels all around your nose.

Anyway, you always wore very tight sweatpants to school and I vividly recall a large wet spot appearing in the general vicinity of your “junk”. We sure did love that full-on-leave-nothing-to-the-imagination view of your “junk”.

I believe this was sometime shortly before you, in the midst of a defaced chalkboard-related tantrum, shoved a TV-VCR combo down the stairs and STILL managed to retain your teaching position! Remarkable. I think St. Patrick’s Day (on which you made little or NO effort to conceal your intoxication, up to and including ACTUALLY hitting on some of the female students) was my favorite though. That’s the day you became SO enraged at someone’s suggestion that St. Patrick’s Day was created by the Lucky Charms Leprechaun– you actually fell to the floor and had a seizure!

Thank you so much Mr. Brady, for igniting my passion for the language–and especially for making ALL reading material sports related, because I don’t know what I would have done had I never had the privilege of reading “Brian’s Song” 3 times in two years (you silly, forgetful man you!).

Much Love,
The Very Traumatized Girl In the Front Row

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Dear over-privileged student,

I understand that your internet connection in the FREE housing you’ve been provided is not operating correctly at the moment. Trust me, our IT department has been working on it. In fact, they were already working on the problem when you called me. They were still over there when you then came to my office to ask about it twenty minutes later.

Yes, I did give you the correct extension for the girl who runs our help desk so you could call back to check on it. The fact that “she didn’t answer” is no reason for you to call me and tell me “she didn’t say her name on the voicemail.”

Let me give you a couple of tips:

  1. If someone doesn’t answer their phone, it’s probably wise to leave a voicemail. People do not have endless bladder capacity and, therefore, sometimes must leave their desks to go to the bathroom. That is exactly where she was when you called for the third time today.
  2. Since the outgoing message on the IT Help Desk actually says “You’ve reached the IT Help Desk”, you can probably bet that you were calling the correct number. Just because I said the actual name of the person who runs the Help Desk does not negate the fact that I also said the actual phrase “the person who runs the Help Desk.”

You apparently lack key listening and critical thinking skills.

Also, giving the Help Desk girl attitude when she tells you that they’ll look at the problem tomorrow is NOT a good idea. She leaves here at 5:00. You called her at 4:30. The problem is on our ISP’s end, and there is no way they’re going to get anything done in thirty minutes.

So, since people have been dealing with not having internet since, say, the dawn of humanity, I think you can go less than 24 hours without your precious wireless access.

Stop Whining,

The Student Wrangler

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Ashleigh, about to turn into Dr. Pain

So, I’m in a PhD program. Good for me and whatnot. I’m not a snob, I promise. However, there are a few things that I expect from academicians and they are NOT delivering. Really, it wouldn’t be so bad if it just wasn’t so completely relentless, but apparently when people find a word or phrase they like they just run it into the ground.

Examples:
One of my professors continually refers to his cutesy stories as “antidotes.” As if his bizarre and slow-going self-congratulatory tales were the only counteracting agents to, oh I don’t know, my impending rage blackouts.
Another uses “myriad” incorrectly (and profusely). As in “a myriad of…bizarre and slow-going self-congratulatory tales.” I mean, I’m no grammar whiz kid, but isn’t myriad supposed to be used like many?
Another uses “methodology” like it’s his favorite word…but where he should use “method” – I mean, we’re discussing a method, not the study of methods in general. Sure, methodology rolls nicely off the tongue…and sounds more important. But it’s just. the. wrong. word.

Point being – you’re a professor. Wrangle it in. Get the grammar in order.

Rantasaurus Says: It appears as though there are a myriad of reasons to joina PhD program. Making fun of stupid people is one of them.

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D.P., no quero Mrs. Giri

So, yesterday, I walk into Mrs. Giri’s Spanish class with my check-out slip to un-register, more than a little excited that I’ll never have to see her again.

“I’m sorry,” she says when I hand it to her. “I can’t sign this. You never returned your textbook.”

My eyes instantly glaze over with pure rage. Last Friday, 3 FUCKING DAYS AGO, I had told her “I never took my book home. I checked it back in the first week of class. It’s still in the classroom.” She had said, “Okay, I’ll find it and sign it in for you-I can’t believe I forgot to do it before!”

And now the bitch was telling me I hadn’t turned it in. I told her about our conversation, and she stared at me, a look of dumb incomprehension stewing in her mushy brown eyes. Brushing off my logic, she ordered me to search through, oh, I don’t know, probably about 60 textbooks that were haphazardly strewn about the room. After looking through all of them (some of them had to be searched out from under desks and the backs of cabinets) I politely informed her that the book was not to be found in the room.

She then accused me of stealing the fucking book, and informs me that if it’s not returned within 3 days, I will have to pay $60 for it. Now, this is the REALLY ridiculous part. If you’ve been in this class, you’ll know why. The book was missing half of its pages before I ever touched it, and they’re all going to be thrown away at the end of the year, as new books have already been ordered.

I proceeded to head a school-wide search for the book. Luckily, it was found quickly, in a classroom across the hallway. Along with 3 other books.

The point of this rant: if someone accuses me of stealing a piece of shit book EVER again, due to their gross incompetence and failure to keep track of said book, which is THEIR responsibility, my head may just explode.

Rantasaurus Says: She sounds like a real snatch, especially since I think she hid your book and those two others across the hall in the French teacher’s room. They’re having un amor prohibido, if you know what I mean.

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